


In the Hands of a Prophesised Vice

by 4Eirlys



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harry Potter & Merlin, Linguistics, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4Eirlys/pseuds/4Eirlys
Summary: When Voldemort resurrects Morgana to help with his plans, the Old Religion cries out in agony to Merlin, ordering him to restore the balance. With the help of friends old and new Merlin must return to Hogwarts to protect the children. But time has not been kind to the Warlock and nothing is as it seems. As always, it isn't going to be easy...
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	1. Prologue

Lughnasadh, the pagan festival of the harvest.

The ancient castle stood proudly to attention. Even though it had long since fallen victim to the ravages of time and nature, with the once formidable walls and turrets which had towered into the sky now lay in great piles of stone, the bricks glowed eerily in the moonlight and a sense of majesty remained. The thick hoards of brambles and roses which had grown haphazardly over the remains only added to the rather grandiose impression, reminiscence of fairytales one could often find in muggle children’s storybooks.

For once, Voldemort unchecked his restrains, and let a genuine smile full of childlike wonder overtake his face. He breathed in deeply, the kind of action that would have had his nostrils fluttering in his weak, pathetic old body, but now only served to emphasise the snake-like features in the moonlight as he threw his head back slightly. The castle even _smelt_ differently; untouched, unearthly.

Mystical.

_Mythical._

The smile stayed on his lips as Voldemort moved forward, his fingers ever so slightly skimming the stones as he strode forward towards the only part of the castle which had remained mostly intact. If he was honest with himself, the barest hint of contact was because the wraith was terrified that the magic imbued in the stones would reject his presence, like it had rejected so many others that had tried over the years. Even Grindleward, in his mission to become Master of Death, had had his magic critically depleted and was been rejected from this hallowed ground when he had visited. But Voldemort was never honest, least of all to himself.

The Dark Lord had always been fascinated with myths; ever since he had found out he had been a wizard. Because if magic existed, what was there to stop some of the older legends from being true too? Yes, whilst the Founders were important – Salazar Slytherin the most – they were not the sole reason he spent hours in the Hogwarts library reading all historical materials, whether myth, legend, or fact. Because he had found _her._

Morgana Le Faye.

The one woman who captivated him like no other. Who would _understand._ For were they not the same, he and she? Both orphans, growing up alone and oppressed. Both finding that their father was alive, and hated their kind, their very existence, their _magic?_ Both who knew the superiority of magical wielders like themselves, who wished to rid the Earth of scum?

Having been recently restored to his body and the events that had subsequently followed had changed Voldemort’s outlook on his great cause. He found himself withdrawing and adjusting his plans and had realised that no matter his cunning, he needed stronger allies. More powerful allies. _Darker_ allies.

His cloak whispered to the earth his most vile secrets as it slithered across the floor. His footsteps were silent – he found himself detesting footwear in his new body and now preferred to go barefoot - and yet they seemed to echo as he strode down what was once the Great Hall. He stopped at the foot of the dais, where once, in a time of myth and a land of magic, a great throne once sat, overlooking the most powerful Kingdom in Albion. The air seemed to grow colder as he knelt, and the contrast between the light and the shadows grew crispier as the darkness came to life, writhing with excitement, making the shadows dance.

_“Geopenian Avalon, ac un lætan.”_

A powerful tremor rocked the castle's foundations as the earth came alive to Voldemort's chant. Slowly, incredibly slowly, a portal of both light and dark began to manifest itself directly where the old throne used to stand. As he began the second line of sacred text, an ear splittering shriek rendered through the air, extinguishing the sole candle he had brought with him. 

_“Geopenian Avalon, ac un þeostru priestess.”_

The unearthly, soul shattering cry made Voldemort stumble, and blood dripped into his eyes, blinding him. Suddenly, a fragment of shadow manifested, giggling as it streaked past him and out into the night, knocking him to the ground. Still, he continued, his resolution causing his breath to crystalise.

_“Freo Morgana Pendragon!”_

The cacophony of noise continued as the Old Religion screamed, though whether it was borne of fury or agony Voldemort could not bother to distinguish. _G_ _ood._

And then, he could sense her. A small pinprick of Something the grew in both darkness and light stalked towards him, out from a thousand years of hell to be with him to create their heaven. Showing only disdain, she halted once she stepped over the threshold of the portal, staring at him with a gaze of dark, unfathomable depths.

“Which _pathetic_ mortal dared to release me from my punishment?”

Voldemort bared his teeth at her, but remained reverently kneeling before her.

"No mere mortal could rescue you, just as no mere magic could imprison Your highness."

The Dark Lady snorted. "Yet you kneel before me with blood staining the floor like a fool.”

“I kneel out of respect, not weakness. The ritual asked for a sacrifice. I gave my life to revive you.”

“And you remain here hitherto?” She asked, obviously curious despite herself.

Voldemort smiled. “I am not mortal, my Dark Queen. Such a cost is insignificant if one acquires a means of living without.”

The Dark Lady studied him silently. Eventually, she said:

“It is impolite to not announce one’s presence and intentions.”

“I am Lord Voldemort, and on this _Lughnasadh_ I have come to reap what I have sown." Voldemort stood, offering one hand to the witch in a symbolic gesture. "Will you help me?”

Her lips drew up into a cold smirk, mirth dancing in her eyes. “It will be my pleasure,” She purred.


	2. The Acceptance Tests

_To the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Witchcraft and Wizardry,_

_I am writing to you to requeste a place in your school this forthcoming year, preferably in fifth year. I understand that it is the norm that al students attend when they are ten and one of age, and of transfers, that they are few and far between. Unfortunately, due to a series of events, I am left alone in this worlde. It was my late Uncle and Guardian Gaius’ wish that I continue my magical education at Hogwarts and complete mine OWLs._

_I am aware that I will have to undergo tests in order for you to determine if I am eligible for your classes and I will happily complie. Due to said circumstances, I am now free of any obligations I once held, and thus any time is suitable for me. I am full of understanding on the occasion of rejection from your prestigious school; time is short, and space is limited._

_I await your missive,_

_Myrddin Ambrosia_

_*** * ***_

_Dear Myrddin Ambrosia,_

_First, I wish to offer you my sincere condolences on the death of your Uncle. It will be a great honour for Hogwarts to be able to comply with his wish. Owing to the (presently) decreased populations, there is indeed room for you to join us, regardless of your year. However your placement, as you wrote, is conditional according to how well you perform with the tests. They are not meant to be feared; only to help us understand where you are in your magical education and how best we can cater to your needs._

_You will need to buy all the equipment you will use (see list provided by my deputy Professor McGonagall). Due to your extenuating circumstances, you qualify for the Hogwarts Hardship, which will help cover those costs, so there is no need to fret about your finances._

_If it is convenient, we can begin testing tomorrow at one o’clock. I find it is better to start them sooner rather than later so any issues can be dealt with in an efficient manner without the quickening passing of time to concern us. You cannot apparate onto school grounds, thus you will need to make travel arrangements to Hogsmeade, our local village. From there it is a short walk to the school. If you have any difficulties, do not hesitate to ask: we would be more than happy to provide someone as an escort._

_I am looking forward to your time at Hogwarts,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_*** * ***_

_Dear Headmaster,_

_I thank thee for thy kind words in these darke times. Whilst I appreciate Hogwarts’ generousite with offering to pay for my schooleing materials via the Hardship Fund, the money that is designated for me would be pute to better use helping other, less fortunate children. By happenstance, I either already owne the schooleing materials due to my studies with my Uncle, or I bought them myself in Diagon Alley recently – presumptuous of me I know, of which I apologise most profusely._

_I am aware of Hogwarts’, and thus Hogmeade’s location, and can easily make my own way there henceforth, though I appreciate thy offer of an escorte. I will gladly meet thee on the ten and third of the daye._

_Yours,_

_Myrddin Ambrosia_

Even though his neck was craned at an awkward angle in order to read the letter which was laid out on the rock beside him, Merlin laughed loudly, causing the languishing hawk next to him to puff out her feathers angrily and squawk in protest.

“Oh come on,” He cajoled, waving the letter about. “You have to admit that this whole scenario is amusing. Imagine not knowing where Hogwarts is or that I need money? HA!”

She glared at him and coughed; the action deliberately reminiscent of when she had returned with a boiled sweet wedged in her windpipe. It had taken extreme skill in being able to dislodge it, and Merlin’s attempts were only successful after he had tickled her under the chin, her surprise causing her to flail away and spit out the sweet.

“Well yes, I suppose that those lemon sherbets he fed you _weren’t_ ideal, but to be fair, you shouldn’t have accepted them in the first place.”

She continued to glare at him for a moment, before deliberately turning her back to him and tucking her head under her wing. He shook his head in amusement at her actions, before rereading the letter she had brought to him from Dumbledore. Chuckling again, his laughter only stopped when he was hit in the face by one of her wings.

Imagine that he didn’t know where Hogwarts was, or Hogsmeade? He had been there when they had been built, he had _chosen_ the spot, had led the little foundlings stumbling through the woods to safety and had practically thrown the building materials at them, all the while protecting them from afar against the wild animals and the ordinary but scared people.

Merlin sighed, and in his distraction, his hand jerked, causing the silver knife to skim from the bark to his finger, the sharp blade nicking his skin. Absentmindedly, he raised his finger to his lips and began to suck on it, his eyes critically surveying the wand he was refining.

Again.

No ordinary wand suited Merlin. It was with good reason: he was the literal _embodiment_ of magic, and power flowed through his veins like water rushed down a gorge. In the beginning, whenever he had picked up an ordinary wand to use no matter what charm he said or object he conjured, it _always_ ended with the stick exploding with the force of a very small, but powerful, bomb (except the word ‘bomb’ hadn’t been invented then). On one memorable occasion, he hadn’t even been able to fully grasp it before the wand detonated. That had led to him pretending he had a wand by carrying out several impressive looking sticks, but that practice soon halted when he realised that several people could sense magical cores in wands, and the absence of one in his.

Thus, some time ago ( _when_ the Warlock couldn’t say exactly), Merlin had taken matters into his own hands, and had decided to make his own wand. It had a triplicate core: a tail feather of the original phoenix and one dragon scale willingly donated by Kilgharrah and Aithusa respectively. Together, with the close connections each held to the Old Religion, they were able to act as conduits to Merlin’s magic, transforming it from Old into New.

Likewise, the wood also held close connections to the Old Religion: as it came from _the_ tree at the centre of _the_ temple: the temple of the Triple Goddess herself, on the Isle of the Blessed.

Thirteen hundred years might have passed since his best friend was King, but Merlin still remembered everything he went through there, and occasionally he went back, to mark the fall of Lancelot, or such times as these when he went to get some wood. Mostly though, he preferred to stay by the shores of the lake.

He felt closer to Freya that way.

* * *

“Choose a desk on which you will complete the written examinations – it matters not which one. I shall be at my desk for the duration of the time overseeing the last-minute preparations for the school, so if any situations arise, please call on me.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Merlin said as he chose a desk in the second row of the classroom. “If I may – what are the examinations on?”

“Yes, you may. The first is the History of Magic -” Here, the Deputy Headmistress’ lips tightened into a thin line in a show of agitation at the subject, “- before a quick theory test on all your core subjects, followed by your chosen electives Care of Magical Creatures and... Ancient Runes, wasn’t it?”

Merlin nodded in acquiescence and having finished settling, picked up his quill to start. He looked enquiringly towards McGonagall.

“These are simple quizzes, to help enable us to understand further about your magical education you undertook with your Uncle. Please, take your time. If you do not know any of the answers, do not be ashamed. Write down what you think it might be and come back to check on it later.”

Satisfied that Merlin seemed to understand the instructions, she handed him the two quizzes, and then settled down behind her own desk, the first pile of parchment immediately shuffling in front of her. Likewise, Merlin turned to concentrate on his own tasks, though not with the intensity that the other occupant of the room was.

He was always going to be exceptional in History of Magic: he _was_ history. Books and plays had been written about his life, papers published theorising the extent of his powers and the probability of the truth of the myths. It was the same with Ancient Runes: all outlying villages learnt the bastardised non-magical form of the runic language, as the pictorial element made it easier to learn for those who had no access to education. He was literally reliving his childhood when he wrote in runes (but it meant he often forgot the consequences of his writings due to the added magical element). As for Herbology, he had had to memorise every plant, along with both its magical and non magical healing properties during his tutorage as the Court Physician’s Apprentice, and those not native to Britain he had encountered during the centuries of travel he undertook when he wandered around the globe.

After twenty minutes, Merlin had whizzed through all of the questions, not missing out a single one. Then, partially in order to kill time and partially to help cover his tracks, he went back and edited his answers, enough so that the majority were still right, but wrong enough that he would not be considered eligible for remedial or specialised lessons. A quick peek ensured that McGonagall was still immersed in the piles of parchment, and so the Warlock wasted more time by surveying the books that were lined up orderly in the bookcases at the front of the classroom. He began to mentally tally which books he had either (co)written, sponsored or bought on the first day of publishing. Unsurprisingly, the ones which rejected all categories were the newer publications.

Eventually, after enough time had passed that it would be deemed an acceptable – albeit early – time of completion, Merlin cleared his voice, and raised his hand, feeling remarkably like a small child.

“I’ve finished. I tried to answer every question like you asked but...” The shrug finished the uncompleted sentence, the Warlock playing the role of angst-ridden teenager beautifully.

“I am sure you will have performed admirably,” McGonagall said in a comforting manner as she collected the sheets of paper. She retreated behind her desk, and rummaged around in the drawer attached before extracting a tin from the hidden depths. Opening it, she placed – to Merlin’s bewilderment – a ginger biscuit on the desk in-between them. “Now, we shall practice your transfiguration. Please transfigure this biscuit into a teacup.”

Merlin did as he was told, and time passed quickly. Depending on the complexity on the spells, he would deliberately change the results in accordance with the standard one would expect from a fifteen year old. For variety, occasionally he said the incantation wrong or overpowered the spells so that they became _too_ complete (it was amusing to say the least watching the mouse he had conjured from a snuffbox defecate on the Professor’s desk. Merlin was sure he even saw the stern woman’s mouth twitch upwards in a hint of amusement, or maybe it was pride).

“As I stated earlier, I am the Transfiguration Mistress. Thus, Professor Flitwick here,” She added, waving her hand towards the short man who had just jovially entered the room “who is a Charms Master, will test you on your charm work.”

* * *

Thus the day passed. As soon as one test finished, the next began. With the exception of Care of Magical Creatures (for obvious reasons), Merlin was led on a mini tour around the castle as he visited the greenhouses, where he was tested on the practical subjects. A knock reverberated through the greenhouse, and Professor Sprout straightened up from where she had been watching Merlin deal with some Devil Snares.

“Curious,” she mused, noting how the tendrils of green simultaneously reached out to Merlin and pulled away from him as if in fright, creating a bewitching dance. “They seem both attracted and repulsed by you – an unusual reaction.”

Thankfully, the knocking began again, and the Warlock was saved from having to answer some awkward observations. It wasn’t only the Devils Snare that acted in such a contradictionary way – all of the plants present were. They were attracted to his magic, the power in it, the _stench,_ yet always hid when they realised who he was, or that his affiliation was to the light and theirs to the dark. But still, they returned, his mere presence like a drug to them which they soaked up eagerly.

“This, Myrddin, is Professor Snape, Potions Master. He shall take you to his lab for your final testing.”

Merlin stood up, and began to brush himself down, only looking up to view his new visitor when he had already started speaking. “Good afternoon Professor Snape-“

The world slowed down – whether it was done unconsciously or not, Merlin couldn’t tell. For it was him, the Potions Master who stood in front of him. It was _him_. The dark and dour man from the visions Merlin had seen in the crystal caves. The one whom had doomed a child, before trying to save them. The Warlock blinked rapidly in response to the new stimuli, and time seemed to speed back up again, resuming its normal passage.

“- and thank you, Professor, for a most enjoyable testing.”

“It was no problem! You are gifted – a natural herbologist and I am excited to have you in my class, and hopefully, my House.” Sprout gave the Warlock a playful grin and wink as she said this. Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin could see the Potions Master rolling his eyes.

“Do hurry. There are still potions that Pomfrey needs replenishing, and they are time sensitive.”

Snape’s voice was silkily dark and smooth, perfectly matching his glittering black obsidian eyes.

“Of course.”

The plump woman became contrite, and moved away, already half absorbed in a Venomous Tentacle. Snape seemed to nod in approval, before sweeping back out of the room, only saying “Come,” when Merlin had stood transfixed, instead of following him back through the maze that was Hogwarts.

The silence dragged on too much for it to be socially acceptable, and bored, the Warlock searched for something to say.

“Thy is the Head of Slytherin House?”

Snape looked surprised when Merlin broke the silence, then said curtly; “Yes.”

“What are the qualities Slytherin searches for when I get sorted?”

Snape seemed vaguely pleased (or perhaps it was phased) at Merlin’s question, but after several long moments, finally deigned to answer it.

“Slytherin students retain certain qualities throughout their life: great cunning, ambition, resourcefulness, determination and cleverness. If you are in my house, we will expect great things, and we do not tolerate laziness in work.”

Merlin acknowledged the speech with a small nod. “I see.” Four beats passed, in which Snape seemed relieved at the silence. “They are admirable qualities for one to possess.”

It was clear that Snape inferred what Merlin had purposefully omitted: _why does Slytherin have the reputation as the Dark House?_ He took his time to formulate his reply, and when he delivered it, every line was clipped and precise.

“There are those with limited cognitive functions who presume that Slytherin is the House who creates all Dark Wizards, such as the Dark Lord, one of our old alumni whose reputation precedes him. The founder did not approve of Muggleborns, for reasons unknown. That is why he built the acclaimed Chamber of Secrets, and later asked to leave the school.”

Merlin frowned as he mulled over what Snape had said. Salazar wasn’t like that. True, he didn’t like Muggles or Muggleborns even, but he _did_ have a vague excuse, and he would not so willingly condemn the entire subset of Wizards over that. At least, the Salazar that Merlin had known would not have done that. But, he supposed, people change, sometimes dramatically. Perhaps Salazar was like – was like Morgana.

Merlin shook himself out of his dark musings, and was grateful when it appeared that they had reached their destination. Ahead of him, Snape pushed the heavy door open, the blast of cold air hitting Merlin hard, blowing the last tendrils of Morgana away. Walking behind the Potion Master, he made his way to the desk where a pewter based cauldron sat. He pulled up a stool and sat on it whilst Snape continued his journey around the room, lighting the multiple candles by hand. It created a foreboding atmosphere – whether it was intentional, the Warlock didn’t know – but Merlin wasn’t affected.

The Warlock was confident with potions: he had either invented most of them, or helped the creators with their work, often improving on their recipe to increase their potency. In addition, he had been under the personal tutorage of the most exalted Potions Master in the Middle Ages – Gaius. A thud on his desk brought Merlin back to the present, and he found the dour man scowling down at him, a finger stabbing the page that he had opened it to.

“You shall make a blood replenishing potion. You have however long it takes until you have finished, but I would like to be done here before the night is out.”

* * *

Half an hour passed and Merlin had completed the potion. He sat back, relaxed, a proud smile on his lips. Blood replenishing potions were so _easy._ Admittedly, he was a little bit out of practice, but even so, he could make the potion on muscle memory alone, even when blindfolded. It was a dark ruby red, almost - but not _quite_ \- the colour of someone’s blood. It was simmering slightly, and the noxious fumes would make any other person nauseous, but to Merlin, it smelt like home.

Clearing his throat, the Warlock waited. The innocent sound echoed as it travelled, making it seem even louder than it had been, and it seemed to go on for an age. The intended person looked up, frowning when he noticed Merlin staring expectantly at him.

“I do not mollycoddle my students. If you cannot comprehend the instructions, then your reports of being at OWL standard have obviously been exaggerated.”

“I can comprehend them, and I have. I’ve finished.”

In truth Merlin hadn’t even bothered looking at the instructions: one look at the title of the book had led to that. The recipe was old and clearly simplified for students. Gaius’ recipe was much more efficient.

The Potions Master sneered at the Warlock and glided over towards the desk. His nostrils flared when they encountered the stench that the cauldron gave off, but in the man’s defence, he did not react. Frowning all the while, Snape stared at the potion, even dipping his finger in it to check the consistency before putting it to his mouth to taste. All the while, Merlin waited in silence, at a loss as to why, underneath the angry demeanour, the Potions Master looked rather like a startled rabbit.

“It is adequate.”

Merlin nodded at the man’s assessment, not understanding when he saw a flash of confusion and annoyance in the obsidian eyes at his reaction. The Potions Master recovered quickly however, leaving the Warlock to wonder if he had imagined it.

“Your last test is Defence Against the Dark Arts. Prepare yourself to duel.”

Merlin readily clambered to his feet, tripping over the stool as he rose. He could feel Snape’s eyes rolling but ignored it as he strode to the centre of the room, his wand out. He stood, relaxed, as he waited for the Professor to conjure up an animated dummy for him to duel.

“Well?” Snape drawled with an eyebrow raised, “What are you waiting for, boy? Or do you not have the common courtesy and respect for me to assume the duelling position?”

Merlin’s mouth fell open in disbelief.

“I am to make combat against _thee_ _?”_

A spark of amusement lit the obsidian depths. “There is no need to fear. I will confine myself to use the expected spell range of a fifth year, whilst you have the freedom to wield any you know.”

Merlin’s mouth curled upwards. “Within reason of course.”

The obsidian eyes surveyed him, and his mouth curled upwards, whether in a sneer or a smirk, Merlin didn’t know. “Of course,” he returned smoothly.

Internally, Merlin sighed in disappointment, before reconsidering his spell choices and the power he would command them with. Before, it would have been okay if some were accidentally overpowered, but now, up against an actual human and a professor no less, he had to do some shuffling in his armoury.

Meanwhile, Snape had taken his position and indicated with a raised eyebrow for Merlin to do the same. He stood with his back ramrod straight, Merlin’s eyes boring into Snape’s as he perfectly executed a bow: low enough to be respectful, whilst high enough to be considered an equal, not an inferior. Arthur would be proud. The Head of Slytherin’s face was expressionless at this display, but repeated the action, though Merlin noted that it was not as deep as his own.

They each stepped back, and then Snape shot a spell at him, so fast that most lesser students would struggle to block and would likely be caught unawares. Not Merlin though. Instinctively, he blocked the spell, before shooting back a bat bogey hex. Snape blocked it, and then opened his mouth saying,

“ _Colloshoo_!”

Before Merlin could block it, the hex took hold. He couldn’t move his feet, as the shoes were stuck to the floor. He debated internally for a moment about whether he should just take the shoes off and continue, but decided against the idea. He doubted whether Snape would approve. Speaking of the devil, he was advancing towards him, and had his wand risen to cast another spell -

“ _Aguamenti_!” Merlin yelled, grinning as a stream of water hit Snape directly in the face.

While the potion master was spluttering, Merlin let his eyes gleam gold and his shoes became unstuck. He began to dance around the room, light on his feet – a state that Arthur would quite rightly say was unusual for him. Snape scowled as he began to turn, in order to keep the Warlock within his sights. Staying true to his Slytherin nature, he began to aim spells slightly ahead of Merlin, anticipating his movements. Unfortunately for him, he did _not_ anticipate Merlin partially transfigurating the candles into flaming birds.

 _“Oppoguno!”_ He laughed, directing the birds towards Snape, whose eyes widened impeccably as they began to dive-bomb him.

_“Protego, depulso, stupefy!”_

The birds vanished, and a jet of red light streaked towards him. Merlin ducked causing the beam to hit the wall, throwing crimson sparks everywhere.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

“ _Epoximise_!”

The two spells collided together in mid-air and then exploded, forcing the two casters to fall back across the floor. As Merlin was reaching for his wand, Snape stood up, looking visibly furious with his robe drenched in the blood replenishing potion that he had knocked over. He flicked his wand, and the liquid spilt all over him vanished, before storming his way over to Merlin, who was still scrabbling for his wand.

“Well that was an unexpected outcome wasn’t it?” Merlin said cheerfully to the angry man, which only seemed to incense him.

 _“Yield.”_ Snape hissed.

Merlin smiled.

* * *

Merlin stopped in front of the gargoyles which he knew concealed the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. Quickly checking that nobody was around with a golden glint to his eye – he had already spelled the portraits in the corridor silent on his arrival and would deal with them later – he leant forward and scratched the underside of the ugly statues’ chins.

“Stop slacking on the job you two.”

Immediately the gargoyles sprung to life, one of them peering closely at Merlin seemingly in recognition after hearing his voice.

“What ho! So you’re back _again_ I see.”

“Says the statue who was squinting at me. Honestly you would have thought you’d have gotten that chip fixed by now.”

The gargoyle in question deliberately ignored the retort with a sniff, before belaying his curiosity by mirroring his counterpart and leaning in closely.

“Care to tell us what your secret is?”

“No.”

The gargoyles looked put out by his response.

“This has to be the sixth since we were installed here, and the previous Guardian had mentioned your numerous visits – don’t you ever get _bored_ reliving this experience time and time again?”

“Yes. After the same interrogation eight times, I find my patience wearing thin. Now, my name is Myrddin Ambrosia –“

“No it’s not,” One muttered sullenly, put out that Merlin hadn’t revealed the secret to his immortality to them again.

“– And could you please announce my presence to the Headmaster?”

“Fine. But you’re going to have to tell us one day!” They yelled as Merlin stepped onto the golden stairs which automatically started to move upwards, the charm kicking in. He paused when he reached the climax of the stairs in order to gather his wits, before knocking calmly at the door. Half a minute passed, before a voice came faintly through the door telling him to come in.

Merlin grinned wryly at the obvious power ploy as he entered the office, soon becoming distracted at the sight before him. He took everything in hungrily as his head swivelled from side to side. It was so _different_ from the last Headmaster’s Office – Mordicus Egg had been in command then, and many muggle inventions had been dotted around the office – and yet the same. This newly decorated office also held various instruments which were dotted all over the place, except they beeped and whirred and gave out puffs of smoke, belaying their magical intensions.

Noticing the past Headmasters and Headmistresses’ portraits (three more had been added to the walls), he quickly closed his eyes so that the occupants wouldn’t see the flash of gold as he blinded and silenced the portraits of his identity, with his appearance replaced by a glamour to them. With his secret protected for the moment, he turned to look at the centre, where a massive desk with mounds of paper strewn all over was situated, paired with a rather majestic looking high backed chair which contained Albus Dumbledore.

Merlin thought, as he took in the Headmaster with amusement, that the Supreme Mugwump Dumbledore might have been one of his biggest imitators yet.

True to form, it was Arthur’s fault that Wizards and Muggles alike both held the misconception that he was an old man. It was due to being made to stand in his Dragoon form every time the royal painters came. Well really, it was Guinevere’s, the Widowed Queen, but Merlin knew she was only doing it in memory of her ass of a husband. Indeed, whilst it was a pretty good joke, it was _not_ meant to last over a millennium.

Merlin had often come across people who tried to look like him in his old form, though for what reason, he didn’t really know. Often their beards were pathetically short, and their hair was a disgrace. But _Dumbledore,_ yes Dumebleodre might have been the man who was the closest to succeed. Indeed, they would probably be able to plait each other’s hair and braid their beards if he resumed his old form. The idea made Merlin grin.

“I am glad that you have within you the capacity to laugh and be merry. There is no need to fear me, or your presence within this room.”

Dumbledore it seemed had obviously been watching Merlin as soon as he had entered the office. At once, the Warlock was thankful he had taken the suitable precaution of closing his eyes.

“There is nothing in here that would fear me.”

“That is the spirit!” Dumbledore chuckled as he came out of his seat towards Merlin. He picked up a tin container on his desk, and held it out toward him. “Lemon sherbet?”

“If thee insists,” Merlin replied jovially, popping one in his mouth, before his lips tightened at the tartness of the muggle sweet. The elderly man’s eyes twinkled at his reaction, before placing a hand on Merlin’s back.

“Here m’boy, take a seat.” He said, guiding him past all the dark magic detectors and true identity finders (which were ironic, seeing as they couldn’t identify him). The thought made Merlin’s lips twitch again, but he managed to get himself under control by the time the Headmaster had settled back into his seat opposite him. “Now, we shall discuss your results. The Professors have been keeping me updates of your progress, with Professor Snape’s report only narrowly beating you here.”

Merlin winced at the contents of _that_ particular report. Dumbledore took no note of it though, instead shuffling the papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for, quietly exclaiming “ _ah_ ” as he carefully withdrew it from the piles.

“The written tests first. With History of Magic you showed extraordinary aptitude, yet rather _creative_ theories within your writings. You performed admirably in Care of Magical Creatures, and were well within the limits for the magical theories of all your core subjects. With Ancient Runes, you did extremely well, occasionally confusing some of your translations. Your Charms and Transfiguration spell work are also within acceptable parameters. Occasionally you made some minor mistakes, but those can be easily rectified: often you omitted certain words in the incantations, or incorrectly pronounced them. ”

Pretending to be dejected yet slightly mollified, Merlin plastered a small frown on his face.

“In Potions it is reported that you made your assignment in good time and your duelling tactics, whilst unconventional, show that you have a good understanding and knowledge of Defence Against the Dark Arts spells.”

Merlin nodded sagely. Setting down the papers, Dumbledore adjusted his glasses as he read the next page of parchment.

“Could I please view your wand, Mister Ambrosia?”

“It’s Myrddin, please. I’m afraid I don’t understand why thy wants to?”

Dumbledore chuckled jovially. “There’s no need to be quite so defensive of your wand, though it is an admirable trait. It’s a standard procedure that all wand wielders undertake when they set foot at Hogwarts. I contacted Olivander to ask him whether your wand would be in good condition, but he told me that you had never bought one from him.”

His stomach clenched tight in protest, but there was no use. Unwillingly, Merlin reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand, now regretting spending hours honing it to perfection the previous night and renewing the carvings. For now, it depicted a dragon breathing fire, the flames growing in size as they raced up the handle. Near the mouth of the dragon, in the hottest part of the fire, a tiny sword was etched.

“Your wand... it’s beautiful.” Dumbledore said, as without realising, Merlin had been turning the carving around and around, inwardly criticising the result.

“Uh,” was Merlin’s intelligent answer.

“May I see?” Dumbledore asked, seemingly bewitched by the beauty of the pictures.

“Sure?”Unwillingly, Merlin handed over one of his most successful pieces of work.

“This is impressive craftsmanship indeed... The carving is so exquisite... If I may enquire, who made this wand? It is clear that it is not Olivander’s work.”

Merlin desperately cast his mind around, looking for a plausible excuse.

“My... Uncle.”

Silence reigned whilst Dumbledore continued to be enchanted by the carvings.

“I am sorry... It is just that I haven’t seen such splendid workmanship. You say your uncle made you this?”

“Yes he did,” Merlin confirmed, as he took his wand back from Dumbledore’s outstretched hand. “My uncle wasn’t quite as rigid or as old fashioned as my parents. He was indeed, quite flexible.”

The Headmaster frowned in seemingly contemplation, before blinking, returning to the matter at hand. If he was a juvenile, Merlin would expect the man to shift awkwardly in his seat, but instead, only the slight twitching of his fingers gave away Dumbledore’s discomfort.

“I’m afraid that that is a perfect segue into a potentially private topic of conversation. Be assured: if the questions are deemed too personal, then you have the freedom to remain silent, but I would prefer answers. It would help us make your schooling more complete.”

“...Okay...?”

“You mention your parents and later you Uncle’s dedication to giving you a complete education, yet they refrained from sending you to Hogwarts.”

It wasn’t a question, but that wasn’t the point. The Warlock was expected to answer it anyway.

“It is traditional in our culture to be home schooled. They tutored me themselves.” Merlin shrugged. “It’s a perfectly valid reason. In fact, my uncle was interested in history – that’s how I know so much about it.”

Dumbledore nodded pleasantly, yet Merlin knew that behind that pleasant facade, a scheming mind was at work, analysing the answer he had gave.

“And your parents – and Uncle – their style of tutoring, did it influence your writing?”

Merlin frowned in genuine confusion.

“Pardon?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Forgive me – I phrased that inappropriately. What I wish to ask, was did your tutors ever focus on writing skills – the style, the language you use... the spellings – or did they concentrate on more practical subjects?”

“Well,” Merlin replied, still taken aback, “aren’t everybody influenced by their teachers in some ways? But yes, I suppose there was a bigger focus on the practical element. With kind regards, Headmaster I apologise but thee has honestly forsaken me.”

“I shall be candid with you. It is the collective Professors’ opinion – mine included based on your letters – that you might have a learning disability called dyslexia. Your writing is... unique to our time. There are several spelling inconsistencies present, and your speech reflects your ‘non-standard’ phrasing you use frequently, though that is not to say that it is incorrect. We think your spellings have impacted on your pronunciation, leading to several of the spells you performed today to suffer slightly because of that. It also explains why your practical tests – such as Herbology and Potions – had higher scores.”

“I’m good at Herbology and Potions because of my Uncle,” Merlin stuttered, still in slight disbelief. He had never heard of _dyslexia._ “He was a physician, and I used to gather the herbs for him when I became his Apprentice and assist in the potions he would need.”

“I see.” Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, before he said. “That may be, and certainly, there is a possibility that we are wrong – we are not experts after all – but our assessment stands. Madame Pomfrey, I am sure, will be happy to test you. We would offer you help of course, and you will gain a certain amount of leniency in your writing to reflect your unique circumstances, but only if you wish to accept.”

“It doesn’t mean that I would be put in the lower year classes, would it?” Merlin anxiously checked.

Dumbledore seemed aghast at the thought. “Dear boy _no!_ Having dyslexia does not mean you’re stupid – far from it. Indeed, your creative tactics and use of your surroundings in the duel you partook in earlier was likely a result of it. Your Potions and Herbology skills revival that of a sixth year or those who are particular gifted in the subject. If you were brought down, all that you would gain is boredom, and that is a state none wish to bestow on another.”

“Very well.” Merlin shrugged. “What harm can it do?”

“Good, good!” Dumbledore made a note on the parchment floating before him, before tapping his wand on it. It glowed a soft white briefly, before vanishing in a flash of light.

“Well, that was the personal questions done. Once again I apologise for the intrusiveness.”

“It’s okay,” Merlin reassured him. Indeed it was: nothing particularly damaging had occurred apart from his wand, and even then, that was down to pure stupidity on his behalf, not the Headmaster’s. “It was necessary.”

“I appreciate your acceptance. Now, I’m sure you will be pleased to know that the final part of your tests before being officially adopted into Hogwarts will now take place. Many argue that this is the most important part, and I confess finding myself struggling to disagree.”

Dumbledore winked at him, as he reverently lifted the Sorting Hat from a shelf nearby. Merlin ginned: this was his favourite part of returning to Hogwarts time and time again. The Headmaster rested the Sorting Hat on his head, before it slipped down his crown, obscuring his vision.

“Ah, interesting... very interesting.”

Barely able to restrain himself from giggling, Merlin waited for the hat to continue speaking. It was one of the only entertainments he had, so when it came to the sorting, he always liked to exaggerate the action of searching people’s mind. Over the years, it had mastered the art of starting and maintaining an awkward silent in order to keep the wearer and the listeners in suspense, and Merlin was determined for the Hat to break it first.

_Oh dear. You’ve returned._

_Aww did you miss me?_

The Hat snorted but refrained from commenting. Merlin took it as a silent _yes._

_And not just for boredom either... you have a greater goal this time._

_Indeed._

_You think it’s your final goal. That this will be the last time you shall be sorted by me, and walk these halls, never to return._

_Is it not? Was I wrong to think so?_

_It is a noble wish._

_One you clearly disagree with._

_It is not my place to lay judgement on a human, merely Sort them._

_Hypocrisy at its finest. But do what you were created for, and Sort me._

_But I cannot sort you into a house, you must choose for yourself._

_I am here to protect the Chosen One and our home._

_Ah yes... Harry Potter... He was to be a Slytherin you know... and he would have been great..._

_You suggest I chose Slytherin?_

_That is for you to decide._

_Can’t you at least help?_

_I am not worthy enough of such an honour._

_Fat lot of good you are then! Fine, I will just choose by myself. Alone. With no guidance._

_Like you have done since the School began then._

_Hush. I choose – I choose Gryffindor._

_Your wish is my command. GRYFFINDOR IT IS!_

The Hat shouted the last sentence out into the room. Merlin couldn’t tell what Dumbledore’s reaction was, as although he attempted to lift the Hat off, it remained glued to his head.

_The wish is a noble one, Founder, and as the old adage goes, when there is will, there is a way._

_Thank you._

Again, the Warlock attempted to remove the hat, but before it cleared his head, the hat spoke to him one final time.

_Good luck Emrys, you will need it. Remember, all is not as it seems._

Merlin’s eyes flew open in shock. In all his years of being Sorted, and the accumulated century he had spent at Hogwarts, the Hat had never once uttered his name. His True Name.

_Thank you, friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say that I wish to cause no offence with the inclusion (and Merlin's view) of dyslexia. I myself have it, along with dyspraxia, and whilst sometimes it’s a pain, it’s also brilliant (it really does liven up dull textbooks when you misread a sentence and suddenly something utterly random and sometimes inappropriate is read). It is also my belief that Merlin DOES NOT have it: it is simply the logical conclusion for the Professors to take.   
> If you are truly interested in my theory, feel free to PM/ leave a comment and I will happily explain. If not, don’t worry – it’s not a major plot point, but simply is a plot device to explain Merlin’s slightly archaic way of writing, his speech and thus his pronunciation, as well as his proficiency in practical based magic.


	3. Introduction

Ancient Vices

Chapter Three - Introduction

Nervously, Merlin sat alone at the Gryffindor table awaiting the arrival of the students. No matter how many times he did this, the waiting was always the hardest, moreso when it was a vigil better suited alone. Even when he inevitably made friends, that sense of trepidation will never fade. Fear will coarse through his veins as he’ll watch the young children seeking love, acceptance and friendship introduce themselves, and he will find himself growing attached. Of one day looking into the eyes of his mortal peers and behold the shadow of death for the first time, and watch them as she stalks them through their pitifully short lives. He had lost count of how many funerals he had attended, and how many hearts he had watched being broken. No matter how much he loved Hogwarts, they would forever haunt him there.

The subsequent days after Merlin’s testing had passed quickly and all too soon, it was the Opening Feast. Due to the Professors being under the impression that he had nowhere else to go, Hogwarts had been opened to him and welcomed him home. He had mostly been left to his own devices – most of the Professors were either doing last minute adjustments to their teaching schedules or they hadn’t arrived yet. The only reason the Heads Houses were present to test Merlin was that they had travelled up especially to do as they taught the core subjects. It was a week later that Sprout and Flitwick returned for the year.

The Warlock spent the days wandering around the castle and its grounds, re-familiarising himself with the layout,and satisfying his curiosity. It was both amusing and sad that he had had to break into the older wings where several of his treasured memories had taken place. They were now boarded up, locked away and forgotten, left to gather and collect dust because the extra space was no longer needed. The silence and solitude helped to comfort him and prepare for the year of intense scrutiny he was about to be put under. Frequently he snuck off to let loose his true magic and start retaining his skills in the watered down version in an attempt to tame his core.

Lost deep within his thoughts, Merlin missed the distant but telltale clatter of the students barrelling into the castle, (most) eager for another year to begin. He jumped violently as the doors were flung open and they began pouring in, filling up the tables. Some completely overlooked him, and a few gave him a cursory glance before dismissing him. A few looked at him sideways, and they were mostly in his age group or his house. Still, even when the seats around him were filled up, he was ignored. The excited chattering continued everybody had settled down, and a slightly pudgy dark haired boy with kind eyes had just leaned across to speak with Merlin when the sharp sound of heeled boots hit the floor, Professor McGonagall descending from the dais.

“Attention Gryffindors!” She called, standing at the head of the table. Gradually, the clamour died down – though not without the use of pointed elbows digging into squishy flesh – and all waited in anticipation. From experience, Merlin knew that an announcement before the Sorting Ceremony was rare.

“The more observant of you would have noticed that there is a new addition to our ranks this year. Myrddin Ambrosia is a fifth year transfer student, who will be a permanent addition to our House. I wish for you all to show why he should be proud to be a Gryffindor.”

Those further down the table began to half rise in their seats in order to gain a look at him, whilst those closest shot him a smile. Th boy from earlier whispered a quiet “hello”, his eyes alight with understanding as Merlin began to squirm, still uncomfortable after all these years being the centre of attention.

“Harry, Ronald, Dean, Seamus and Neville, please stand up. Myrddin is to be your new year mate and thus shall sleep in your dormitory. Thank you all for listening.”

With that, McGonagall swept her way out of the Great Hall, heading towards the first years that were anxiously in the nave to be sorted. The boys sat down and gradually conversation began to flow again, although those who seemed close in age were regarding him curiously, the girls especially.

“I’m Neville,” The boy opposite Merlin said quietly. “Neville Longbottom.”

He looked almost afraid when he said his second name, as if Merlin would look down his nose and sneer at him.

“You already know who I am,” Merlin said with a smile. “I’m Myrddin Ambrosia. Pleased to meet you.”

He offered his hand out, and hesitantly, Neville shook it, his strong grip betraying his timid persona.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Neville began hesitantly, “But you have a strange accent which I don’t recognise. Where’s it from?”

Merlin smiled, slightly melancholic. “Home. It’s rather far away I’m afraid.”

That same spark of understanding was still in Neville’s eyes, and he nodded in acquiescence. He opened his mouth to change the subject but was interrupted by a girl with long brown bushy hair.

“Did you attend Durmstrang then?” She asked curiously. Next to her, a boy with ginger hair sneered in disgust.

“Wanting to hear from _Vicky_ are we-“

The girl turned, her eyes flashing with fury to regard her dinnertime companion. To help defuse the suddenly tense and slightly awkward atmosphere (though interestingly, the other occupants only seemed resigned to the seemingly inevitable argument that was brewing between them) Merlin answered her question and unspoken assumption.

“No. I haven’t transferred from Durmstrang nor from any other schools, before you ask.”

The girl turned back round to him, and many shot him grateful glances, Neville and Harry included. “Oh,” She said, visibly surprised. “I’m sorry – it’s just your accent is very similar to their students you see.”

Merlin raised his eyebrows, secretly amused at how close, and yet far the girl’s deduction was: his speech was clouded by the Camelot accent, kept there by determination and a sense of loyalty to his home and his king. Camelot had spoken a mixture of Welsh and Old English, with the latter being closely related to the Germanic languages. It was impressive that she had been able to pick up on the similarities.

Merlin waved her off. “No worries – a lot of people are wrong about my nationality. It’s nothing new and no harm done.”

The red head snorted again. “Hermione, wrong? She hates that.”

Merlin’s ears perked up with interest. “Hermione?” He asked curiously, a teasing one colouring his voice. “A Greek name, yet you have an English. Doth I detect a fellow oddity?”

She watched him with amusement. “I’m afraid you don’t. My parents were just a fan of the classics – my last name is Granger and _Oh_ I haven’t introduced myself, I’m so sorry!”

She had said this all in one breath, but towards the end she began to gesticulate wildly, encompassing her friends. “My name is Hermione Granger. This is Ron Weasley (who grinned at him, his snit apparently forgotten), and Harry Potter.”

“Thank goodness you realised – I had rather thought I had missed the introduction. I’m Myrddin.” He gave a little wave, secretly amused by the startled looks the trio gave each other when he didn't appear to be fazed about meeting the famous Boy Who Lived.

“So how come you’re only joining now?” asked Ron curiously, “Is it usual to have transfers?”

“Well according to _Hogwarts: A History_ –“

“I fear I know not. After all, I have only recently arrived.”

Ron had the grace to seem embarrassed. Luckily Harry took over the interrogation, smoothing over the potential awkwardness.

“What did you have to do to get in?”

“I had to do a series of tests, both written and practical. It later turned out the Professors returned to Hogwarts specifically for me, which I feel rather guilty about. I completed the written tests in front of Professor McGonagall and the Transfiguration exercise – you know a teapot into a tortoise and so on. Then Professor Flitwick came and tested me on Charms. I went to the Greenhouses so Madame Sprout could see how I interacted with some of the plants she chose.”

“Which Greenhouse did you go into?” Neville asked curiously, making Harry and Ron jump with surprise.

“Four.”

“Ah,” Neville hummed, deep in thought. “So Devil’s Snare, (here the Golden Trio smirked at each other) Puffapods and Venomous Tentacles?”

“Yes.” He grimaced. “The tentacles took a special liking to me and the Wizzentree didn’t want me to leave. I know not what that says about me!”

He winked, and Hermione and Neville laughed, leaving the other two confused at his joke. The Wizzentree was a plant who protected those in contact with it from Dark creatures and Magic whilst simultaneously attacking the dark forces. It had yearned for Merlin due to his connection with the Old Magic, from which it had been created by.

“What about DADA?”

“That took place after the Potions practical with Professor Snape. I had to make a Blood Replenishing potion for the school stock. The duel was hard though –“

“What?!” Harry exploded. “You fought Snape? Did you win?”

 _“Professor_ Snape Harry!” Hermione countered in exasperation.

Neville simply whimpered, “I would have hated that.”

Thankfully, Merlin was saved from salvaging the situation by the doors which led to the Entrance Hall crashing open. A long line of students began to enter the Hall – although the Warlock noted with sadness that it was one of the smallest intakes he had seen - led by Professor McGonagall, who was carrying the stool upon which sat the Sorting Hat. The buzz of talk in the Great Hall faded away as everybody turned expectantly to the front, ready to welcome the newcomers. The first years lined up in front of the staff table facing the rest of the students, looking absolutely petrified whilst Professor McGonagall placed the stool carefully in front of them, before stepping back to the side, scroll unrolled and waiting to be read from.

The whole school waited with bated breath. Then the rip near the hat’s brim opened wide and the Sorting Hat burst into song;

_Once there were four people,_

_Who came together to start anew,_

_They built a school for magic great,_

_To teach everything they knew._

_These four people are the great founders,_

_Powerful magic users in their time,_

_Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin,_

_At the peak of their prime._

_But did you know, there was a fifth,_

_That came from time of old,_

_He rose up from the lowest depths_

_And then put time on hold._

_He taught the four new founders,_

_Of magic both new and old,_

_And watched as they completed tasks,_

_With eyes that glowed hot gold_

_After a while, he could not stay,_

_For risk of secrets being known,_

_So hid deep within shadows big,_

_Whilst great seeds were being sown._

_Founders four, did not fare well,_

_Without their mentor great,_

_Soon fought and argued, bickered with hate,_

_Not heeding the warning bells._

_Then one day, the last straw,_

_And Slytherin lost the fight,_

_So took off, into the night,_

_And left his friends behind._

_But one day, the awful happened,_

_And Slytherin got a chill,_

_Lying there, heaved his final breath,_

_His master there as he greeted death._

_The mentor had lost another friend,_

_And fate had finally gone too far,_

_So he withdrew from the world,_

_And waited for the shining star._

_The end approaches, the time is near,_

_To end his eternal rest,_

_He rallies forth, as from the sphere,_

_The future he sees appears._

_So if you see him, do not be afraid_

_For help is finally at hand,_

_As he walks alone, protecting this place,_

_Please help him all you can._

_His oldest enemy, of friend once good,_

_Arises from the dead,_

_In one final battle, the deed will be done,_

_And the debt will be repaid._

_Hogwarts is in danger,_

_From external, deadly foes,_

_And we must reunite inside her,_

_Or we’ll crumble as we close._

_But heed my words, and listen wisely,_

_For change is up ahead,_

_My final sentence, is all important,_

_Some people change, when they are dead._

“Well, that’s new.” Ron said into the unearthly silence.

* * *

Eventually, the surprise and shock wore off. The Professors - with the exception of the pink monstrosity – had began to converse in whispers, their heads canted slightly towards one another. Dumbledore was staring pensively at the ceiling, ignoring the controlled chaos around him, whilst McGonagall, still frowning, had begun to call out the names in order to restore some normalcy.

“Branched out a bit this year, hasn’t it?” said Ron, his eyebrows raised.

“Too right it has,” Harry said with feeling.

“I wonder if it has ever given warnings before?” said Hermione, sounding slightly anxious.

“Yes, indeed.” A ghost appeared out of nowhere, and Nearly Headless Nick leant across Neville who winced (Merlin sympathised; it was never a _nice_ feeling to have a ghost move through you). “The Hat feels honour bound to give the school due warning when it feels something is about to happen. Never of this kind though...”

“Is it true then, that there was a fifth founder?”

“Well, I’ve never heard of it, but I suppose that it would be possible -” He trailed off, only just noticing their dinner time companion.

Nicholas floated there, as he stared openly at Merlin. His mouth moved up and down, but no sound was emitted. The Warlock’s eyes flashed in warning, and gulping, Nick blinked. One useful thing Merlin had been able to do was to send a message to all of the Castle’s permanent inhabitants was that he was back, and to not break his cover. That wasn’t to say they would listen to him – they rarely did – but they had been suitably warned, and after the first who babbled had been made an example of, the rest would stay silent and follow suit.

“Yes... It would certainly be possible.”

The Ghost stared hard at Merlin, and the Warlock gave a small sharp jerk of his head to signify his approval and appreciation of not immediately betraying his unusual status. Not that the ghost knew of course – at least, not for definite – but Merlin had been around Hogwarts long enough and often enough that they all knew he was special. Different.

The others were looking at Nick rather oddly, but before one of them could act upon their whims, the Gryffindor Table erupted into cheers and yells, and belatedly, they realised that the Sorting had started. Grudgingly, they decided to pay attention, Merlin being the exception.

The Sorting Hat had made a song about him that much was clear. But _why?_ He had never done it before – had never _needed_ –

It had been less than a month since Morgana had returned and life had changed for Merlin. Closer to three weeks, really. It was just over a fortnight since he had sent that letter to Dumbledore requesting a transfer. The Sorting Hat might have known it was him, even though he had never been a transfer student at this high a level before, or perhaps he had only known about Merlin’s arrival when he has sorted him, but even so – unless the Hat had been writing the lyrics nonstop since their meeting, the only other possible explanation was that –

The Sorting Hat knew what was to come. And that was unthinkable. Because that meant that for all of his cryptic remarks, he had deliberately withheld vital information for the war ahead.

It meant that he had broken the enchantment that had once been placed on him a long time ago, and that he had willingly lied to a Founder.

Merlin was torn from his morbid thoughts by the Great Hall bursting into one final round of applause, and he focused just in time to see the Hat being carried away by McGonagall. In expectance, the Hall quietened as Dumbledore stood up, his long hair and beard out in full force and not tucked into his bet, his hands thrown out wildly in a gesture of welcome.

“To our newcomers, welcome, to our old hands – welcome back! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!”

Laughter rang throughout the hall as the occupant heeded the Headmaster’s words, Merlin joining in. If only Arthur had done that at all the feasts, he would have been able to eat a lot more. He blinked, to find that the food had appeared out of nowhere, which even Camelot’s magnificent food had a hard time rivalling.

Hermione it seemed, had not been distracted or deterred by the large length of time that had passed since the previous conversation had ended, as she immediately turned to Nicholas to continue interrogating him.

“You were saying something about the warnings –" She prompted.

“Hmm? Oh yes, I have heard the Hat say several warnings before, always at times when it detected periods of great danger for the school. And always, of course, it’s advice was to stand together, though never in such detail.”

“It wants all the houses to be friends?” Harry said, as he looked over to the Slytherin table. “Fat chance.”

“Well, now, you shouldn’t take that kind of attitude,” said Nick reprovingly. “Peaceful co-operation, that’s the key. We ghosts, though we belong to separate houses, maintain links of friendship. I would never _dream_ of making an argument with the Bloody Baron.”

Merlin had to work hard to contain the snort that the statement elicited from him. Ron it seemed had no such self control.

“Only because you’re terrified of him!”

Nearly Headless Nick looked highly affronted, an expression which frequently adorned his visage. “Terrified? I hope that I, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, have never been guilty of cowardice in my life!”

“That was never in doubt,” Merlin spoke soothingly, casting a warning glance at Ron who seemed set on disagreeing.

“Indeed you do, indeed you do...” said Nick, once again looking straight at Merlin. “Even so, I will not tolerate disrespect!” With that, the ghost drifted towards the other end of the table where two boys with similar mousy brown hair and an excitable disposition were sitting. Immediately, they engaged the ghost in conversation, and Nicholas quickly became ratified.

“Ron! What have I told you about thinking before you speak?”

Ron looked slightly guilty as Hermione snapped at him. Merlin sighed inwardly. It seemed that if he was to fit in with this group and to become good friends with Harry, his role would be to continually diffuse the tension between the two.

“So how exactly does the food appear?”

He watched in mild satisfaction as Hermione turned to him, her eyes alight with enthusiasm as she began to explain in minute detail how the House Elves cooked the food, before using their own special branch of magic to –

Merlin looked up briefly to catch Harry’s eyes, raising an eyebrow. The unspoken message was clear:

_You owe me._

* * *

“I cannot believe it. Verily, I doth not believe it. The sheer bloody _nerve!”_ Merlin ranted into the silence, dragging Harry along behind him.

“The impudence! The arrogance! The stupidity!”

Almost callously, he stuffed the Boy Who Lived behind a tapestry, tapping the stones in a complicated pattern to reveal the secret passage behind.

“I will show them. I’ll show them all. And I’ll give ‘em the old one-two as well. Coming here, planting an imposter to control _my_ school? _This_ is what the Ministry is doing nowadays? I mean, I always knew they were impotent dunderheads, but _this_?!”

“Mate I think you need to calm down and – what language are you speaking?”

“What?”

Merlin was flummoxed enough to stop in his tracks, much to Harry’s relief. The passageway had no light, but Harry had lit the tip of his wand with the _lumos_ charm. The Warlock had the grace to be embarrassed that he had been so preoccupied with his fuming that he hadn’t noticed the darkness – indeed he could navigate Hogwarts blind – nor that he had switched back to the Old Tongue. Which was just as well, he quickly realised, with the things he was sprouting.

“I – verily, thy is correct beyond measure. It is simply that –“ The Warlock ran his hands frustratingly through his hair. “I have only just arrived and the bloody Ministry are _already_ ruining things. The prejudiced morons.”

“So you – you don’t believe them?”

The tentative hope in the boy’s hope broke Merlin a little, and it was enough to calm his anger. A gentle smile formed, the Warlock’s eyes crinkling in the corners.

“No Harry, I don’t. I believe _you.”_

He was tempted to add that he’ll always believe in Harry – and it was true, in the things that mattered anyway – as he sensed that the boy needed complete and absolute pure _belief,_ but it would come across as slightly strange and a bit too romantic for both of their tastes, especially due to their hour’s old acquaintance.

“When people are scared, Harry, they act in mysterious ways. There are those that say that love is the most powerful motivator, but fear rivals that well. The Daily Prophet and the Ministry are succeeding partly due to people _not_ wanting to live in fear again. They will come round; they always do.”

Harry stared glumly at the floor. “But those kids – they looked at me and they _feared_ me. _H_ _ated_ me.”

Merlin frowned. Harry was referring to the incident after the feast had ended which that _pink monstrosity_ had ruined. A group of the new students were walking shyly up the gap between the two tables, all trying hard not to lead the group. Merlin and Harry grinned at the group, but then a blond boy looked petrified and nudged a fellow student next to him and whispered something in his ear. The Warlock had wondered what they were repulsed at, until he felt Harry shift from his position of being slightly behind him, and turned to find the grin sliding of his year mate’s face. That was why they were in the secret passage – Merlin had dragged them here immediately after, so the Chosen One could avoid the sneers and taunts.

“But in time, they will love you, and worship you. Things might seem bad, but I expect that when all of this is over, when the fight against Voldemort has been won and you are forced to bask eternally in adulteration, a small part of you will yearn for these dark days when you were ignored because you were hated.”

Harry regarded him with curiosity.

“You’re sounding very wise. You speak as if you understand.”

Merlin gave a half smile. “I read a lot as a child. It rubs off on you. Gives you a certain amount of empathy.”

Harry threw back his head and laughed. “It seems like Hermione has another contender.”

* * *

“So why have you come to Hogwarts? You never said.” Ron asked through his mouthful of buttered toast.

Merlin wrinkled his nose in disgust but didn’t let the unseemly sight deter him from his breakfast.

“May you pass onto me that croissant, Neville? Thank you. It was my Uncle’s wish for me to attend a magical school. Hogwarts is the obvious choice.”

“But why _now?_ ” The Ginger continued to press.

“He died.”

His breakfast companions paused for a moment, falling silent.

“I’m sorry mate I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know –“

“It’s fine, really.” The Warlock forced a smile on his face and busied himself with eating his breakfast.

“So were you home schooled?” Harry asked curiously after a few minutes of awkward silence passed.

“Yes. My mother started my schooling when I showed signs of magic. We lived in a rural village though with various non magical people around. She was rightly alarmed when I first started to use it unknowingly.”

Here, Merlin began to grin, thinking back to what his mother Hunith had to have gone through when he was a baby.

“I bestowed a whole new definition to the saying ‘children should be seen and not heard’. The terror my mother constantly felt at being found put immense stress on her. I never quite understood that.” The smile grew melancholic. “Eventually, my uncle took over and continued my education, right up until he passed away.”

“Is that normal?” Harry said. “I thought everybody was taught in schools like Hogwarts.”

“You are correct, it is not. Unique circumstances and beliefs led to it being so.”

Hermione frowned, but before the conversation could be continued Harry noticed that Professor McGonagall was walking towards their way handing out timetables. He changed the subject, beginning a new discussion.

“What are you taking Myrddin?”

“My electives are thus; Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures.”

Hermione brightened while Ron groaned.

“You really _are_ another Hermione.” The words were cruel, but the tone fond. Hermione playfully swatted at him.

“At last, another Gryffindor for Ancient Runes! It really is the most interesting subject, isn’t it Myrddin?”

Seeing Merlin’s confused visage, Harry expanded. “Ron and I both take Divination. So did Hermione, but she dropped it after claiming Trelawney was a fraud and the subject pointless. She took up Ancient Runes instead. But we all do Care of Magical Creatures though – our friend Hagrid does it – you’ll like it!”

His tone grew more excited and Merlin let himself become infected, ignoring the pursed lips Hermione made at the final comment. It was then that Professor McGonagall reached them, and tapping each piece of parchment with her wand she handed out their timetables, Ron first and Merlin last due to their positioning on the bench.

“Mister Ambrosia,” she added as she handed him his timetable. “The Headmaster mentioned that you were open to being tested. Your timetable free priod on Wednesday shall be whenMadame Pomfrey will test you. Report to the Hospital Wing sharp at one o’clock. If I recall correctly, it precedes Ancient Runes. I am sure Miss Granger would be more than happy to help you on your way if you remain unsure with your way around this school.”

She looked over her glasses and gave him a small, but kind thin lipped smile. “I am pleased you have decided to accept our offer, Myrddin. I hope the outcome will enable us to give you a much more suitable education for you.”

Merlin ducked his head in an old-fashioned show of acknowledgement and respect. “My thanks, Professor, for Hogwarts’ kindness.”

She blinked, and if she was a lesser woman, Merlin would swear that the Transfiguration Professor was flustered at his response. She moved quickly onwards though, patiently answering the questions offered from younger students further down the table. He looked up from his perusal of his timetable to find Harry frowning at him, but luckily the ginger hadn’t been paying attention and interrupted his best friend before he could speak.

“Look at today!” groaned Ron. “History of Magic, double Potions, Divination and double Defence against the Dark Arts... Binns, Snape, Trelawney and that Umbridge that you mentioned was at your hearing all in one day! I wish Fred and George’d hurry up and get those Skiving Snack boxes sorted...”

“Doth mine ears deceive me?” Twin gangly ginger boys had arrived, unceremoniously squeezing onto the bench next to Harry.

“Hogwarts prefects surely don’t wish to skive off lessons?”

“Look what we’ve got today,” Ron said grumpily, shoving his timetable under one of the boy’s nose. “That’s the worst Monday I’ve ever seen.”

“Fair point, little bro. “You can have a bit of Nosebleed Nougat cheap if you like.”

Merlin started to feel confused. What on earth were Nosebleed Nougat and Skiving Snack boxes? Well, he supposed, the clue was in the label, but surely somebody hadn’t been stupid enough to –

“Why’s it cheap?” Ron asked suspiciously.

“Because you’ll keep bleeding till you shrivel up. We haven’t got an antidote yet.”

“Cheers,” Ron said moodily, “but I think I’ll take the lessons.”

“And speaking of Skiving Snack boxes,” said Hermione, eyeing the twins beadily, “you can’t advertise for tester on the Gryffindor notice board.”

“Says who?” said the twins together, looking astonished.

“Says me” said Hermione. “And Ron.”

“Leave me out of it,” Ron said hastily. He seemed to shrivel under the intensity of the girl’s gaze, sinking down in his chair slightly.

“You’ll be singing a different tune soon enough. You’re starting fifth year, so you’ll be begging us before too long.”

“Why would being in fifth year mean I’ll want one of your products?”

“Fifth year’s OWL year.”

“So?”

“So you’ve got exams coming up haven’t you? They’ll be keeping your noses so hard to the grindstone that they’ll be rubbed raw,” the other ginger twin spoke in savage satisfaction.

“Half our year had minor breakdowns coming up to OWLs,” the first recounted happily. “Tears and tantrums... Patricia Simpson kept coming over faint...”

“Kenneth Towler came out in boils, d’you remember?” said Twin Two reminiscently.

“That’s ‘cos you put Bulbadox powder in his pyjamas.”

“Oh yeah,” said Twin Two grinning. “I’d forgotten... hard to keep track sometimes, isn’t it?”

Up until now, Merlin had remained silent and completely ignored, but with the mention of Bulbadox powder, his interest peaked.

“How did you manage to stop the sweating sickness?” He asked curiously.

The ginger twins eyed him beadily.

“The sweating sickness – what are you, a pensioner? But for your information, with my brilliance –“

“And my brains –“

“And our stunning good looks –“

“We simply froze the powder first in lemon juice. The acid from –“

“The lemon is known for its properties of reducing liquid and the combination of the loss of temperature is enough to act as an instant relief,” Merlin realised out loud with admiration. “That truly is _quite_ brilliant.”

The gingers flushed. “We know. That’s why we did it.”

* * *

To put it simply, History of Magic was _extremely_ dull. Seeing as Merlin had lived through most of it, he already knew more than the teacher of the subject could ever possibly conceive. Even taking into consideration that history was constantly being rewritten and thus the true accounts were dismissed and lost to the mists of time, he was still going to excel due to taking the subject multiple times. Busy chattering away to Neville about plants – he had found out the shy boy had an affirmation towards plants and Herbology in general and was enthralled at his extensive knowledge on the subject – he didn’t notice that class had started until the ghost was floating before him.

Merlin froze.

Professor Binns had dedicated the majority of his natural life to being a teacher, and this dedication to his passion was prolonged eternally in his afterlife. In total, he had been a staple of Hogwarts life for a little under two hundred years – long enough to be one of the few to experience multiple incarnations of the Warlock.

“Good morning Meryn.”

The Warlock didn’t breathe. Meryn – he was referring to Merlin’s last persona, a clumsy yet strangely popular Hufflepuff who often struggled with even the most basic of spells, yet was still unusually powerful.

“It has indeed been a long time since you were last here, was it not?”

People started to turn around and began to listen in to their conversation.

“Indeed. I would apologise for the intrusion but lessons to learn and hence forthwith.”

The Ghost floated, pondering him. More and more people were paying attention now, because Merlin knew it was rare for the spirit to concentrate on anything other than his lecture notes for long periods of time.

“You shall persist in your outlandish views I suppose.”

Merlin gave a half smile. “It was as I learnt, Professor. One cannot undo years of lessons taught well so easily.”

“The same, always the same...” Binns muttered quietly, seemingly to himself, then seeing Merlin’s warning look, said loudly for all the class to hear; “But you shall not distract me for any longer. Class, you will settle down. Today we are going to be covering Trolls...”

He began to float back to the front, his voice settling into the familiar drone that Merlin instantly tuned out from years of experience. He turned when he felt Ron’s quill dig into the side of his arm.

“Don’t worry; he does it all the time.”

Merlin sighed in relief, and then answered Ron’s kindness with a smile before settling down to doodle. There was no point in taking notes – he knew all of the material anyway.

* * *

Merlin joined the queue waiting outside the Potions classroom, Neville once again by his side. The boy was quiet, stuttering every time the Warlock had made an attempt at conversation and eventually, he gave up. The boy radiated nerves, and was practically shivering in fear, though that could have been due to the perpetual cold. Behind them, the door into the classroom opened and immediately everyone fell silent as they all filed into the freezing cold room.

“Settle down,” Snape said coldly, shutting the door behind him. “Before we begin today’s lesson,” Snape said as he swept over to stand in front of his desk, “I think it’s appropriate to remind you that next June you’ll be sitting your OWL’s. I expect you all to scrape an ‘Acceptable’ in your OWL, or suffer my... displeasure.”

Snape’s gaze lingered on Neville, who gulped in terror. Merlin frowned: it was a cruel act to intimidate the boy.

“After this year, many of you will cease to sturdy with me,” Snape went on. “I take only the best into my NEWT Potions class, which means some of you will almost certainly be saying goodbye.”

The black eyes rested behind Merlin, where he knew that Harry stood.

“But we have another year before that happy moment of farewell, so whether or not you intend to do NEWT level, I advise you all to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high pass level I expect from all of you.”

“Today, we will be attempting the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned; if you’re too heavy handed, you’ll put the drinker into a deep and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you must pay attention...”

Merlin sensed Hermione straightening up next to him as she heeded the potion master’s words. In contrast he slouched back into his sleep. The Draught of Peace – how _boring._ This was a potion which had to be made daily, for –

Merlin deliberately stopped thinking, and focused back onto the Professor. Snape flicked his wand, as if in response to his renewed attention.

“The ingredients and method are on the blackboard, and everything you need is in the store cupboard-” He flicked his wand again and the door to the store cupboard flew open. “You have until the end of the lesson to finish.”

The Warlock sat in his seat, bored whilst he let the initial crush of people die down after everybody immediately stampeded to the store cupboard in order to collect the required ingredients. To occupy himself, he drew mindlessly, a sketch of the Princess Elena taking hold. Next to him, Hermione had returned and set down her ingredients with a huff, impatiently lifting her mane of her hair away from her eyes. The scratching of his quill caught her attention.

“ _Merlin,”_ she hissed, jolting him back to reality with the use of his real name. “Do you _want_ to be crucified? Go and get your ingredients and start!”

He sighed, realising that she had used his name as an exclamative. An annoying habit that the Wizarding World had in general, he had found. Reluctantly, he pushed himself off his stool and strolled to the cupboard, where he spent five minutes carefully selecting his ingredients, deliberately choosing the worst ones – those that were poor in quality, and often turning rancid, letting out toxic fumes. When he returned, he found Hermione feverishly stirring her potion and muttering to herself. Ginning at the challenge he had just set himself, the Warlock set to work with practiced hands, never needing to look at the board for instructions. His merriment was fuelled when he caught sight of his drawing, the memory of the Princess Elena being possessed by a Changeling one of amusement.

Even though he could create the potion within minutes, he forced himself to slow down considerably, and after he calculated that it would only just slightly above average, Merlin settled back in his chair and gazed around the room. Beside him, Hermione looked distractedly over to him, then seeing that he was doing nothing, snapped;

“What are you doing sitting there? You can’t have finished!”

Surprised, Merlin wondered: “Why not?”

“We still have fifty minutes to go! That’s why! You must have got something wrong to be finished so quickly.”

With that, Hermione quickly went back to her own cauldron, where she began stirring it slowly with extreme precision. Huh. The Warlock checked his cauldron: it was perfect, even with the substandard ingredients he had deliberately used. He settled back into his stool with pride, finishing off his portrait of the Princess with a flourish. After a while, he became aware of a presence and looking up, found Snape standing in front of him.

“Ah, Mister Ambrosia, our new classmate. Tell me, Ambrosia, do you think yourself so arrogant and unique with your newly arrived status that you think it acceptable to doodle in my class? Are you self-centred enough to not realise you are supposed to be potion making, or are you such a dunderhead that you have yet to be able to comprehend the instructions?”

The sudden quiet was punctuated with the bubbling potions fizzing as the students watched with bated breath to see how Merlin would respond. Behind the Professor, he could see a few of the Slytherins silently laughing, sure that the Gryffindor would be in trouble.

“Unique sir, definitely unique.”

Snape snarled. “A wisecrack I see. Typical Gryffindor. Fifteen points taken for sheer laziness, with another ten taken for every minute you spent wasting time.”

With that, he aimed to sweep back to the front of the classroom, clearly thinking he had won their little confrontation.

“Such an unfair consequence for one who has already completed the activity.”

“ _What_?” Snape turned back towards Merlin in apparent surprise.

“I have finished, Sir.” Merlin said loudly. It echoed around the room, and those who were not paying attention before now suddenly grew silent, as everybody watched in astonishment.

“Impossible,” The man countered. “Clearly you are a liar and a charlatan as well as lazy.”

“No, it’s simply improbable when you have set your standards thus.”

Merlin picked up his ladle and dipped it in his cauldron before tipping it sideways, the liquid delicately sliding out and landing back into the cauldron with a small _plop._ Predictably, Snape stormed back up.

“A mistake riddled work.” He dismissed.

“Oh? In that case,” Merlin said, grabbing the ladle once more, “You shouldn’t mind if I do this!”

He raised the ladle to his lips, easily evading the Potions Master’s roar of _“You fool,”_ and subsequent swipe.

 _“Ah,”_ He sighed, smacking his lips loudly in the deafening silence. “Cranberry. Delicious.” He turned to offer the ladle to the Professor. “Would you care for some? I rather think you require it. Your complexion is blossoming a most unbecoming shade.”

The dour man stared at him and then snatched at the label, finally assessing the contents within. He stopped, his eyes switching from the potion and then back to the Warlock for several moments. Merlin made sure he had his smarmiest smile plastered onto his face. Truth be told, he wasn’t too sure why he was acting up so much – maybe it was because the man was clearly favouring his own house over others, deliberating terrorising Neville over his clumsiness when he had the makings of a great potioneer due to his ability in Herbology. Or perhaps it was because thinking of Elena and _her,_ which made him think Arthur, and he was reverting back to his old ways.

Or perhaps he was bored. It could be either, really. Or, most likely, a combination of all three.

Snape snapped.

“How have you managed to complete it so soon? A NEWT student would not be able to make it as quickly and they would have had an ‘Outstanding’ in Potions.”

The Slytherins muttered disappointedly between themselves, upset that they hadn’t witnessed the slaughter of a rival. In particular, a pale, thin, blond boy sitting next to two boys who both looked alarmingly like gorillas seemed almost crushed by the fact that Merlin wasn’t getting points taken off or detention. Or death.

“I was a Potions apprentice. I told you as such in my testing. Towards the end, I made most of the brews needed, with minimal supervision, with him only helping now and again by making his own. Eventually, as it forever is, I was on my own creating brews.”

“The taste of cranberries?”

A melancholic smile was elicited by that response.

“It is universally acknowledged that the tastes of potions are appalling. It was in our duty of care to lessen the pain for our patients. The cranberries, admittedly was a side effect of using the rancid flobberworms – usually it has a more raspberry flavour.”

The man remained silent for a moment. “Indeed. Very well.” Snape looked around and seeing that everybody was paying attention to them, continued angrily; “Well go on! You have forty seven minutes left and you’re doing _nothing_? Need I remind you that an unfinished potion will be marked as zero?”

Dawning horror at their impending doom caused the rest of the students to frantically return to their cauldrons. But due to their negligence, several of the potions had overboiled, with some close to spoiling or gaining dangerous qualities.

“Ah.” Merlin looked around at the carnage his display had caused. “That – that was not my intention. Oh dear.”

Snape lifted a sardonic eyebrow, a touch of a malicious grin on his lips. “A rash action typical of a Gryffindor. You are now solely responsible for the majority of your fellow dunderheads’ failing mark this lesson. Let that be a lesson to you in so blatantly disrespecting a Professor. You shall find no friends in your pathetic house tonight.”

Merlin smirked. “Challenge accepted.”

* * *

Walking around the classroom, Merlin stopped and helped every single person, whether it was Slytherins or Gryffindors. Of course he was glared at and several times his help was rejected, always by those clad in emerald and silver. Inwardly, the Warlock sighed at the ugly house rivalry. Honestly, this was often why he preferred to be in Hufflepuff – none of _that_ stupidity occurred _there._

He wandered to the very front, where the blond boy and the two towering pieces of muscles sat. He was just in time to grab Muscle Man One’s arm to stop him from dropping something in the cauldron.

“Doth your eyes deceive you? Pray restrain your endeavours to create an explosding potion. That does not belong in this potion.”

Merlin gave a friendly smile to the boy, who grunted before setting his arm back down. He turned to look into Muscle Man Two’s cauldron, where he again, stopped him.

“Is this the work of a copycat I detect, or are you two that closely entwined? You, my friend, are failing the same test as your comrade.” The brute squinted at him stupidly, before slowly gathering the correct ingredients which Merlin had to helpfully point out and dropping in without pomp into the cauldron.

Looking up, the Warlock the blond boy staring at him, a sneer adorning his haughty face, his back straight and – _for the love of Camelot he reminded him of Arthur._ He simply stared for a moment, lost in the similarities.

“Paint a portrait: it shall last longer,” The boy snarked derisively.

“I quite agree. Your hair won’t be so perfectly placed unless you pay attention to the potion and not waste your time sneering at me.”

The boy glared before saying sharply: “I don’t need your help, _Gryffindor_.”

Merlin watched him, steadily.

“It’s like that, then, is it?”

The boy sniffed. “You might have had some training with a nameless physician, but _I_ am the Scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy.”

“Bad play,” Merlin mused. “Verily it is so. I can certainly see the characteristics.”

The boy smirked, proud. More fool him, unheeding the insult and the veiled warning. So much for being cunning.

With that, Merlin walked away, and returned to his row. There, he went to Harry and Ron, where he made the former add the Hellebore and the latter to lower the heat on his cauldron. After those two, he spent the remainder of the lesson with Neville, where he found that Neville wasn’t bad at potions, he was _really_ bad. Patiently explaining to him where he went wrong, the time passed so quickly that he was startled when Snape announced the end of the lesson.

“Potions are to be bottled into a flask and labelled clearly before being brought up to my desk, for me to grade them.” The man’s lip curled upwards into a sneer. “Your homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday.”

Walking back to this seat, the Warlock leaned down to pick up his bag. He had already dropped off his flask at the desk when he had first started offering his help, to prevent some uncouth person from attempting to sabotage his position. He was interrupted however, by a loud BANG which reverberated throughout the room. When the smoke cleared, everybody stared at the cause; a liquefied cauldron with the potion running onto the floor. The victim was soaking wet and even though Merlin was at the other side of the room, he could see the skin turning red and the quiet hisses of pain as it burnt into his skin.

The Warlock made eye contact with the culprit, a knowing glint in his eye. It seemed that Malfoy had not listened to what he had said.


	4. Umbridge

On the walk up from the dungeons to the fifth floor, reactions to Myrddin tended towards absolute silence or intense chatter. Hermione was the former, striding towards their collective doom with a disapproving yet slightly puzzled air, whilst Harry and Ron switched between the two rapidly, depending on whether the “slimy snakes” were involved. Merlin inwardly scoffed at that, but managed to contain his distain at their prejudice. Neville, meanwhile, whilst immensely grateful for Merlin’s help and impressed at his defiance of the Potions Master, had quickly reigned in his reaction, instead choosing to talk about plants and their properties, for which Merlin was grateful for. He hadn’t realised that there would be such extreme reactions to his behaviour.

They were still chattering as they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, too absolved in their conversation to notice that their fellow students had stopped talking: likely due to the unknown factor seated at the teacher’s desk, especially when concerning discipline. Though from the way she seemed to think that the students were all toddlers, it wouldn’t be that bad. Professor Umbridge was wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before with a black velvet bow adorning her iron grey curls which lay limply on her head. The comment last night rose unbidden to the forefront of Merlin’s mind, but he agreed with the sentiment: she really _did_ look like a toad.

“Well, good afternoon!” She said when the whole class had finally sat down.

A few people mumbled a “good afternoon” in reply, but most simply leaned back in their chairs, with one eyebrow raised (though in the case of poor Seamus, two).

“Tut, tut,” said the Professor. “ _That_ won’t do, now, will it? I should like you please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge’. One more time. Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” they chanted back at her.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge sweetly. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.”

Merlin frowned down at the desk whilst the rest of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order ‘wands away’ was never usually followed by an interesting lesson. Unwillingly, everybody stowed their magical sticks, Merlin being the only one who hadn’t even bothered to retrieve it from his bag and who already had the neccessary writing materials: he had had a sneaking suspicion something like this would happen when a Ministry worker of her calibre was involved.

Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her wand – an unusually short one, Merlin noted - and tapped the board sharply with it; words appearing on the board at once:

_Defence Against the Dark Arts_

_A Return to Basic Principles_

By the Goddess.

She hadn’t even started and Merlin was already bored.

“Well, now your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it?” stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. “The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry –approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in you being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year.”

Hermione frowned at this, along with Neville, but neither of them said anything.

“You’ll be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.”

She rapped the black board again; the first message vanished and was replaced by ‘Course Aims’.

_Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic._

_Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can be legally used._

_Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use._

For a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge’s course aims she asked, “Has everyone got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhart?”

There was a murmur of dull asset throughout the class.

“I’ll think we’ll try that again”, said Professor Umbridge. “When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, “Yes, Professor Umbridge”, or “No, Professor Umbridge”. So: has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhart?”

“Yes Professor Umbridge,” rang through the room.

“Good. I should like you to turn to page five and read “Chapter One, Basics for Beginners”. There will be no need to talk.”

The Professor left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher’s desk, observing them all closely. Merlin did as asked and turned to page five and started to read. Promptly, he lost concentration. The text was one of the most dull writings he had ever read – and Merlin had been made to peruse official Court document and Gaius’ multitudes of books. Dismissing the book entirely, he leant back in his chair, balancing only on its hind legs.

“This is most tedious,” He said into the quiet.

Immediately, the attention of the whole class was upon him. Some, like Harry, Ron and Neville, recognised from the tone of voice that trouble and verbal sparring was brewing, whist others were simply relieved to have a reason to tear themselves away from the odious book.

“What?” He continued in surprise when he noticed Hermione shooting him a disapproving look from two seats down. “It is. You can’t say much: you haven’t even _attempted_ to read it.”

Indeed she hadn’t: the Witch hadn’t even bothered to open the book and instead had been staring fixatedly at Umbridge since the reading began. Another annoyed glance was sent his way when Umbridge acknowledged him and not the girl.

“I’m sorry, Mister –“

“Ambrosia.”

Merlin saw her upper lip curl into a sneer at his pronouncement of his last name, and knew it was because it wasn’t a name that she recognised. In her eyes, he was neither a Pureblood nor a member of a “lesser” but still influential family, and thus was of no consequence. In addition, his slight accent didn’t help – she seemed like the type of person who would turn their nose up at immigrants, whether they were well meaning or not.

“-Mister Ambrosia, that you found the chapter “tedious”. No doubt you misunderstood it due to your... lack of education. Perhaps the third year text would be more suitable.”

“Mayhaps it is. This is so dry I fear it will disintegrate if I touch it. A younger age aimed text would be far more robust.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“It seems the class comedian has revealed themselves.”

“And it seems that the illusionist has revealed themselves. Pray tell: where is the intent on using defensive spells in your illustrious classroom?”

There was a short silence, in which many members of the class turned frowning to look at the board. However, Merlin and Hermione (who indeed lived up to her reputation) stared fixatedly at Umbridge.

“ _Using_ defensive spells?” Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. “Why, I can’t imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use one, Mister Ambrosia. You surely aren’t expecting to be attacked during class?”

“We’re not going to use magic?” Ron exclaimed loudly.

“Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr-?”

“Weasley,” said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air.

An Indian girl who Merlin recognised as being a roommate of Hermione raised her hand.

“Yes, Miss?”

“Patel. Parvati Patel. Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?”

“Are you a ministry trained educational expert?”

“No, but-“

“Well then, I’m afraid you’re not qualified to decide what the ’whole point’ of any class is. Wizards much older and clever then you have devised our new programme of sturdy. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk free way-”

“What use is that?” Harry said loudly. “If we’re going to be attacked, it won’t be in a –“

“ _Hand,_ Mr Potter” sand Professor Umbridge. She smiled more widely, turning her back on him. Harry immediately stuck his hand up. Hermione had yet to put her hand down, and so Umbridge turned to her, perhaps hoping that the female would be more manageable, unlike her counterparts.

“Yes, Miss -?”

“Granger. Hermione Granger. Surely the DMLE and the Aurors, directly contradict this new policy as trained ministry professionals? After all, we require them to protect our country against those with Dark intent both from within our borders and out of our borders, as well as having to deal with muggles.”

Neville picked up her trail of thought. “The number of new recruits will drop dramatically – the Auror force at the moment consists mainly of the Old Guard, and they’re nearing retirement age.”

Umbridge smiled thinly at them, then said in a sickeningly sweet tone of voice that made Merlin wasn’t to throw up: “Whilst it is a pleasure to see everybody concerned with the Ministry’s activities, you are all still children, and shall not need to consider career choices in the wider world for a while yet. Now, as I was saying –“

“Not need to consider career choices?” Hermione interrupted incredulously. “This is OWL year! Are you _insane!_ ”

The girl’s hair was practically crackling with electricity as she gazed in horror at the DADA Professor. Still swinging on his chair, Merlin watched in satisfaction at the chaos that had erupted. It was good to see the younger generation actually _thinking_ about the consequences of their actions, and how it could impact on them in later life.

“ _Your hand is not up Miss Granger!”_ Trilled Professor Umbridge. “Now, it’s the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more sufficient to get you through your examination, which, may I remind you all, is what school is all about.”

“Seamus Finnegan, and isn’t there a practical bit in our Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL? Aren’t we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter curses and things?”

“As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you shouldn’t be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions.” Professor Umbridge said dismissively.

“Without ever practising beforehand?” said Parvati incredulously. “Are you telling us that the first time we’ll do the spells is in the exam?”

“I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough, then the spells will come to you easily enough. That is, if you have the magical strength to be able to.”

Several students had their mouths open at the sheer stupidity that was occurring in front of them. Hermione’s hair was now standing on end, whilst Harry was practically shaking. Ronald’s face was turning purple and Neville was opening and closing his hands into fists extremely slowly.

“And your name is?” Professor Umbridge said, pointing to Merlin’s roommate.

“Dean Thomas.”

“Well, Mr Thomas?”

“It’s like Harry said, isn’t it? If we’re going to be attacked _after_ school, it won’t be risk free.”

“I repeat,” Said Professor Umbridge, smiling in an irritating fashion, “Do you expect to be attacked during lessons?”

“It’s happened before, hasn’t it?” Ron pointed out, wildly waving his hand around in the air. “We had that Nutter firing Unforgiveables left right and centre, and you lot at the Ministry didn’t even notice – or if you did, you didn’t even care!”

Professor Umbridge talked over him. “I don’t wish to criticise the way things have been ran here,” she said in an unconvincing smile. “But you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed-not to mention-,” she gave a nasty little laugh,” extremely dangerous half-breeds.”

“What laboratory did y _ou_ escape from?” Lavander whispered underneath her breath. Next to her, despite his affiliation towards the Ministry and its view on Harry and Dumbledore, Seamus huffed a laugh in response.

“If you mean Professor Lupin,” piped up Dean angrily, “he was the best we ever-“

“ _Hand_ , Mr Thomas! As I was saying- you’ve been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate for your age and potentially lethal. You’ve been frightened into believing that you’re going to meet Dark attacked every other day-“

“We’ve met you haven’t we?” Merlin said loudly, but over the cacophony of noise it seemed that Umbridge (perhaps thankfully) didn’t hear him. Those close to him did however, and Harry choked on his anger due to his sudden impulse to laugh.

“No we haven’t,” Hermione said indignantly, refusing to let humour sway her,” we just-“

“ _Your hand is not up Miss Granger!”_

Hermione put up her hand and Professor Umbridge turned away.

“It’s my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you.”

“Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn’t he?” said Dean hotly. “Mind you, we still learned loads.”

Merlin snorted at the black truth in the statement.

“And what good is theory in the real world?” said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again.

“This is school Mr Potter, not the real world,” she said softly.

“So we’re supposed to be prepared for what’s waiting for us out there?”

“There is nothing waiting out there, Mr Potter.”

“I fear that we have at last, found the main point of contention.” Merlin put his hand up as he spoke. “For what about Dark Creatures? Werewolves or Vampires or Grindylows or Dementors –“

“Dementors are under Ministry control.”

“If _you_ think so. Do Grindylows tempt you off the path simply so they can have a cup of tea? No. Instead they want to kill you. Werewolves can be dangerous when they chose to be, whilst the loss of control can occur to even the best of Vampires. And the less said about the Dorochna the better! They feed off on pain, and misery, and eventually your soul -”

“Now, let me make things quite plain. Whilst there are threats, that is what the Aurors, DMLE and the Dangerous Magical Beasts are trained to deal with.”

“I know not what you believe, Professor, but for myself I wish not to disrespect the Ministry and waste money which could be given to better causes. I pride myself on the valour of our prized aurors. By calling them to one’s abode in order to deal with my Boggart, which I cannot disconjure due to the negligence of your teachings, bestows upon the unfortunate respect of the lowest calibre. I do not wish to demean myself. Do you?”

Umbridge was practically vibrating in fury.

“I was informed that the _half breed_ ,” she spat dangerously, causing Neville to have to wipe spit off his face with a grimace, “taught you the _ridiculous_ charm.”

“But you’re not going to teach the Third Years that, are you?” Neville pointed out. Although his voice was quiet, his tone was firm, strengthened by resolve and conviction.

Umbridge bristled and drew herself up, as if the action would give her more presence. It didn’t. It only made her look more like an amphibian.

“I resent you all questioning my teaching methods, which have been dictated on behalf of the Ministry. We have taken all of these thoughts and ideals which you have presented to me into consideration and are now providing the optimum solution –“

There were groans of frustration at her words, and how they directly contradicted her actions. “ – as to the average citizen, there is _no_ danger in the outside world-”

“Apart from what Myrddin said and Lord Voldemort, yeah, that’s right.”

Ron gasped; Lavender uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grim satisfaction giving the Warlock the feeling that this was what she had intended to happen the whole time.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter. Now, let me _again,_ make things quite clear to you children.”

Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned towards the class, her stubby fingered hands splayed on her desk.

“You’ve been told that a certain Dark Wizard has returned from the dead-”

“He wasn’t dead,” said Harry angrily, “but yeah, he’s returned!”

“Mr Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,” said Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at Harry. “As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.”

“It’s NOT a lie!” said Harry. “I saw him, I fought him!”

“Harry _stop it!”_ Hermione hissed, tugging on the Boy-Who-Lived’s sleeve.

“Detention, Mr Potter!” said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. “Tomorrow evening, five o’clock, my office. I repeat, _this is a lie_. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you aren’t in danger from any Dark Wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn wizard, I would like to hear about it. I am your friend.”

“So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?” Harry asked, his voice shaking.

Cedric Diggory? Who was Cedric Diggory?

A collective intake of breath. A trace of satisfaction.

“Cedric Diggory’s death was a tragic accident,” she said coldly.

“Is that what you told his dad? What you told Amos Diggory? Is that how you consoled him? That his son, the Heir of the House of Diggory, his precious, amazing, fair, _kind_ son died in an accident of his own making? You disrespect _him.”_

“And you disrespect his memory by implying that there was anything more to it.”

A sob escaped from Harry, and Merlin realised he was crying. The tears were those of sadness and fear and rage, the young boy’s body vibrating with the strength of the trapped emotions.

“It was an accident. I didn’t _mean_ to take him there with me to the graveyard. I didn’t mean for him to _die._ But it was also murder. The monster named Voldemort killed him and _you know it.”_

Everybody stilled.

“Oh _Harry,”_ Hermione whispered sadly, her hair seemingly wilting in her grief.

Professor Umbridge’s face had gone blank. For a moment, Merlin thought she was going to scream at Harry. Then she said, in her softest, most girlish voice, “Come here, Mr Potter.”

Harry kicked his chair aside and strode to the front. There, Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink then began to write. Nobody spoke. After a minute or two, she rolled up the parchment and tapped it neatly with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he couldn’t open it.

“Take this to Professor McGonagall dear.” Professor Umbridge said, holding the note out to Harry.

The boy hesitated, and it seemed to Merlin that he was on the verge of saying something, but instead he snatched the note from her without a word and turned on his heel. The door slammed behind him.

“Now,” Umbridge turned back to the class, clapping her hands in girlish excitement, a sweet smile once more adorning her face. “The excitement is over for the lesson. Please turn to page 5. I expect you all to have finished reading the chapter by the end of the lesson. Remember: there is no need to talk.”

* * *

Days passed. As always, the Hogwarts rumour took Merlin by surprise with just how _fast_ it worked. Peoples’ focus was centred solely on Harry as they tried to dissect the Chosen One’s words and attitude, pitting them against the opposing views of the Ministry. There were some positive effects though: an influx of people who came forward to proclaim their ‘allegiance’ – or the child’s equivalence anyway - to Dumbledore’s, and therefore Harry’s, view of Voldemort’s return. However, the atmosphere at Gryffindor Tower in general became heavy and more stilted as the non-believers – Lavender Brown who resided in Hermione’s dorm and Seamus in Merlin’s own – were torn between the genuine mourning and complete and utter _conviction_ Harry had shown when talking about the death of Cedric, and the indoctrination they had been overwhelmed with over the summer holidays.

Wednesday arrived, and with it, Ancient Runes with Hermione. Merlin enjoyed the lesson immensely, and he could tell that it would quickly become one of his favourites. Even with the OWL speech at the beginning of the class – which the other subjects had all mimicked – reinforcing the seriousness of the year and the need to work hard, subsequently causing the panicked Hermione to frantically reach for her planner in an effort to begin organising study schedules, did little to deter Merlin’s contentment.

He said as much when they left the classroom at the end of the double period, his bag a comfortable weight on the Warlock’s shoulder. Hermione frowned, catching a strand of her hair and coiling it around her index finger.

“You must have had a very thorough education before you came here then. Nobody else understood the theorems that Professor Babblington talked about today and there were Ravenclaws present! _”_

“You understood them though, did you not?”

Hermione huffed, a small and embarrassed yet proud smile painting her lips. “Yes, but that’s only because I read ahead.”

Merlin grinned, and poked her in the side. “And how far, exactly, did you read ahead, Miss Granger?”

She ducked her head slightly but raised her eyes and stared at him straight in the eyes, refusing to be cowered, though she was still embarrassed.

“The whole book,” She muttered.

Merlin laughed “Swot,” He teased. “And here I thought you were wonderfully smart like me. Instead, you _prepared._ Such a disappointment!”

Hermione shoved at him in mock anger, but a smirk rounded her features and a laugh bubbled out of her.

“Oh _really._ What are you then, fluent?”

Merlin shrugged unconcernedly. “Yep. My mother taught me how to read and write”

Hermione opened her mouth, a demanding glint in her eye, but before she could say anything, Merlin noticed that they had only got up one set of stairs, not two, and were now heading down the north west corridor, instead of the south east corridor they would need in order to get back to Gryffindor Tower.

“You know this just proves my point. Miss Hermione Granger. You may preside under the psyendrom “bookworm” however that is all I think it mayhap be! The Tower is the _other_ way.”

She ducked under his arm and instead continued to resolutely march down the corridor, leaving him standing there, alone.

“I think maybe _your_ intelligence is overrated, or did the brainbox forget that he was to go to the Hospital Wing to undergo tests performed by Madam Pomfrey?”

Merlin’s shoulders deflated. “Ah. Wait, brainbox?”

Hermione laughed as he began to run down the corridor after him. Merlin overtook her easily, and was leaning smugly against the wall outside of the Hospital Wing, relishing the cold stone pressing against his back by the time she caught up with him. She was severely out of breath, the disapproving and calculating expression adorning her face masked by a smile. Merlin raised an eyebrow: she had managed to make better time than he had thought. Perhaps he really _was_ getting old.

“So kind of you to wait for me, such a gentleman. Especially considering you are the patient today, and not me.”

Merlin simply stared at the door, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, paying her no heed.

“Myrddin?” Hermione prodded him gently.

Merlin tore his gaze away from the door and looked at her, slightly embarrassed.

“I rather detest medical examinations,” He mumbled.

She smiled, and then shoved him through the door.

* * *

“So.”

Merlin kept on walking, a slight furrow to his eyebrows as he desperately tried to shove away his memories of the tests that Madame Pomfrey had put him through, humiliation still fresh in his mind.

“So,” He replied in a monotone.

There was silence, and then Hermione burst, the words spilling out of her in one vast, swirling torrent, propelled by guilt and relief and worst of all, _pity._

“I’m so _sorry –_ I’ve been really suspicious of you and if I’m honest, slightly jealous of your prowess in the classroom, especially Potions because Snape never treats and respect _me_ like that and it’s so unfair about the way he treats us as if we’re dirt beneath his feet but he doesn’t with you but it’s actually because he knew didn’t he? He knew that you had dyslexia and _oh!_ That explains why you’re so good at Runes as well as its pictorial – but – wait – what about Professor Binns this doesn’t explain that and –“

“Hermione.”

At last the Witch took a breath.

“Yes?”

“Henceforth desist. Let me speak.”

Her mouth was open in shock, and normally Merlin would be ashamed at his rudeness and impudence he had just displayed, but he had just been humiliated – albeit unintentionally, but the principal remained the same – in front of one of his peers, who was now _pitying_ him and what was worse, was now objectifying his past achievements and grading them based on _special_ allowances that had and will be put into place for him. And the shock too – along with that niggling worry of doubt. That maybe he _was_ slower and thicker than everybody else, that his past achievements were flukes.

In short, Merlin was frustrated, and Hermione was to bear the brunt of it.

“First, how _dare_ you suggest, nay _state,_ that my so called ‘prowess’ in Potions is not due to my own ability, but due to Snape having _lower_ standards when dealing with me than with everybody else as aa result of my apparent ‘disability’. Thy implies that my talent in Runes today was not due to my studying and my work, but rather my fluency is due to the _nature_ of the work. That I am proficient for words are not used but _pictures.”_

Merlin was snarling now, his eyes flashing a frightening azure blue in his anger, nostrils flaring.

“You act now as if _I_ were a _child_ among you, who think of thyselves as adults. You degrade me, Granger, and thus you degrade yourself. I am good in Potions for _I am good in Potions._ I am fluent in Ancient Runes for my mother was fluent in Runes. Nothing more, nothing less. Do _not_ take that away from me.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide, filled with unshed tears. Her lips quivered slightly, but as he stormily watched her through angry eyes, Merlin noted as she regained swift control of herself.

“As to your accusations about me being _untrustworthy –“_

Here, Merlin’s anger finally ran out, and he deflated slightly. Seeing this, Hermione quickly took her chance, and jumped in.

“Merlin’s beard I just wasn’t _thinking_! I’m so sorry _._ I – of course the achievements are all yours, I just got slightly carried away, and as to the suspiciousness, it’s just that I – well, all of us really who knows what’s about to come – have all become paranoid because of Voldemort’s forces on the rise, and you were new, with a strange accent and you were just so _good –“_

Merlin held up a hand to stop the tirade, and immediately Hermione ceased, watching him tentatively.

“You were doing quite well you know, until you let your – for want of a better word – jealously, ‘get to you’ as it were. It is entirely reasonable that you were suspicious for me. Alas, the incident with Professor Binns has an entirely reasonable explanation. I did not return home after my tests which took place early August – there was no home to return to. I stayed here, and wandered about the halls of Hogwarts, exploring. I literally walked into him a few times. In addition, we both hold... _alternate_ views on history. He’s quite amusing to verbally spar with, if you can remove him from the topic of Goblin Rebellions of course.”

Hermione seemed rather taken aback, but such was his concoction of lies sweetened with truth that she swallowed it all obediently and without hesitation.

“Yes, well, that does make sense now,” She mumbled. Standing there, she regarded Merlin regarding _her._ After a moment that seemed to stretch long into the distance (though Merlin had of course, experienced longer stretched moments), she held out her hand hopefully. “Friends?”

Merlin stared at her, long enough for her skin to itch in discomfort and worry to enter her eyes.

“Ha!” He exclaimed. “I had you there! ‘Course we’re friends!”

He took the hand and shook it, before leaning in to whisper, the action accompanied with a conspirator’s wink:

“That is of course, until you find out I have talent in Herbology.”

Hermione’s face, torn between amusement and jealousy, contorted wildly. The stupid expression caused Merlin to laugh loudly and he swung his arm up and around her shoulders in his merriment, before leading them back to Gryffindor Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I would like to reiterate two things:
> 
> First, Merlin does not have dyslexia. The staff assumed that he did because of how he spells (he uses a variety of spellings across the centuries), his prowess on practical subjects compared to theoretical ones (they think his parents saw that he struggled with writing, and so allowed him to concentrate more on the subjects which he wouldn't struggle so much in) and how he has unusual speech. Sometimes, dyslexia has an impact on the way you pronounce things. I don't exactly know how rare a trait this is (I have it, but my sister and my friends who have dyslexia do not, for instance) but it is A Thing.
> 
> Second, Merlin's views on dyslexia are not my views. His belief that it is a made-up disease is due to never encountering it before. Dyslexia is a fairly recent discovery, and as Merlin has been sleeping since the 19th century he missed its discovery. 
> 
> Third, to clarify on the confrontation between Hermione and Merlin. Hermione (whether accidentally or intentionally) insinuates that the reason Merlin excells in Ancient Runes in comparison to her (who has read the whole textbook!) is due to the pictorial element in the subject. Essentially, he's good at it because there is no writing involved, only pictures and even a child can understand pictures.


	5. An Admirable Duel

**_Morgana’s POV_ **

_The room was long and rectangular. Although the chamber was well lit, there were equally as many shadowed areas though they caused the woman no fear – she had already explored them and besides, what would scare a creature of nightmares? Everything had been moved to the edge of the chamber in order to create adequate space in the middle. Whilst the targets disappeared magically into the ceiling, and the mannequins wearing armour which had been programmed to respond to her commands had been returned to their crates, the mounted dummies had only been wheeled off to the side._

_Morgana stood in the centre of the room, twirling a sword idly around in her hand – a deceptively easy trick on its own, but made much harder by it being held in her left, and the slight stiffness she felt from being dead for over a millennia and the... events that occurred subsequently. An idle thought crossed her mind, which caused a smile to caress her lips: this must be what growing old felt like._

_No wonder Gaius had only hobbled around the place._

_As her merriment grew, the sword in her other hand too, began to be twirled with devastating skill. With her head cocked to one side as she beheld the scene before her and the glorious mass of her hair constrained in a plait tumbling down her head and over her shoulder, she rather fancied herself appearing as a beautiful, avenging angel. Of course, her outfit helped: whilst it was not the beautiful dresses she had (only sometimes) been forced to adorn in the ancient times, the fairly loose fitting shirt consisted of high quality hand spun silk, and the trousers were likewise made out of fine cotton. They felt like a second skin to her (now most especially) delicate skin, and they did not hinder her movements at all._

_Her prey stood opposite her, resplendent in a matching outfit, perhaps made grander by the clothes being more tight fitting, clearly tailored to his fine form. His hair too, was tied back by an emerald ribbon, but the locks were straight and white gold, so unlike Morgana’s own. He stood ramrod straight, a rapier held loosely in his dominant hand, whilst the other was behind his back. Whilst he seemed relaxed and unruffled to the average onlooker, the persona was betrayed by the eyes which monitored the Witch carefully and his left hand, which, whilst she could not see, Morgana knew was clenched in a fist, the muscles tight as he fought the urge to grasp his wand in a reaction to seeing her smile as she successfully crossed her swords over in a showing of great skill._

_These New Magic people: always so_ reliant _on their sticks. A fault to be sure, but not, perhaps, one of their own, personal, making._

_Her smile faded._

_The Triple Goddess always did like to meddle after all, to keep the_ balance.

_“Very well.” She said aloud._

_A single pale, perfectly manicured eyebrow rose and fell, the only tell that Lucius Malfoy allowed on his sculptured face._

_“I am feeling benevolent today. You may choose another weapon of your choice, whether I battle against rapiers twice or an equal partnership between rapier and magic, matters little to me.”_

_The Death Eater regarded her coolly, even as his left hand came out from behind his back and to the holster strapped to his leg, tapping it thrice before his wooden stick appeared._

_“How kind of you. I shall endeavour to provide an adequate duel for you, however, in the interest of sportsmanship; my spell use shall be limited.”_

_Head still tilted, Morgana assessed her opponent. A smile – a_ genuine _smile - flickered onto her face, so unlike the one which had adorned her visage mere moments before. For once, she sensed no derision or scepticism from her opponent – a refreshing change from the men she had always challenged herself with back home, who doubted her abilities due to being a woman. She inclined her head in a rare show of respect and watch in satisfaction as he did so likewise._

_They stood like that for a moment, and then, in some unspoken signal, they attacked._

_Morgana stepped forward, bringing her swords up to head height in the classic X block move, before moving to throw her arms out, causing the blades to whistle dangerously through the air as they sliced, the gleaming metals only precious millimetres away from Malfoy’s throat and getting closer –_

_CLANG._

_His rapier came up to guard that precious column containing his life blood. Then he began to_ push _and his slight advantage due to his height gave him extra strength as he bore down on her. She let her muscles tremble at the exertion, and masked her mocking glee as she saw a flash of satisfaction gleam in his cool grey eyes at the thought that he was winning against her._

_Pah!_

_She showed him - painfully too – as she stepped forward and stomped on his foot. Whilst he had enough control not to gasp, his eyes widened incriminately at the unladylike and (probably) unsportsmanlike move she had just made. She stepped back, releasing her blades, twirling them once in consideration before moving forward to attack again._

_But he was ready this time, and ducked the blades, moving forward to jab at her midriff, whilst silently shooting a spell off at the same time. A jet of ugly blue shoot out of his wand – which would have concerned an ordinary person due to its dangerous position at the back of her neck – but she only laughed as it bounced off her shield, shooting off at a mirrored trajectory to collide against the stone wall in a shower of multicoloured sparks. The rapier hit the shield seconds later, jolting Malfoy, who had made the mistake of tightly gripping the weapon in order to deliver a greater blow, causing his shoulder to lock up and almost drop the rapier._

_Morgana smirked in the satisfaction that her ward had worked – she had been creating it when twirling her swords in the short time before the duel, the showy moves designed to draw the eye away from her face and the only tell her magic gave: her eyes glowing gold. A fault she had yet to combat (and secretly she didn’t mind if she was unable to: gold was her colour after all)._

_They continued like that for a breathless two minutes, Lucius mostly using the rapier to defend himself, occasionally shooting off a spell and monitoring the results with a careful eye until he struck. Morgana had admittedly, began to get sloppy as the duel continued, playing with her food slightly, and thus it took her by surprise when once again he shot a spell at her, where it predictably bounced off, exploding as it hit some wooden crates to the side of her, before following it up with a swing of his rapier, which would easily have taken her head off if it wasn’t for her ward, his knuckles white as he clenched the sword, and doesn’t he know that’s only going to cause him to break his hand and drop the weapon - ?_

_Ignoring the cacophony of noise behind her, an annoyed thought crossed her mind. She had had such high hopes for the man too. Honestly, she would have thought he would have learnt by now that –_

_But it seemed like Lucius Malfoy_ had _learned, as in a flash of movement, his rapier now lay in his left hand whilst his wand was in his right, pointing at the bridge of her nose. And surrounding her was the mannequins from the crates which he had craftily blasted mere seconds earlier by utilising the misdirection her wards gave to attacking spells._

_“Surrender, Milady. You are surrounded.”_

_She simply gazed at him with an arrogant lift to her chin. “An excellent ploy, Lucius, but I fear you’ve overplayed your hand._ Ic cume eft me. Swá þæt ic mæg min fæhþ awrecan! Nu ic lybbe ece and ic mæg rædan min burh!”

_At once, the mannequins reacted, whirring to life complete with weapons and armour as they regarded Lucius and Morgana through their dull glowing red eyes. Then, they attacked._

_Morgana laughed joyfully as she whirled, her swords merely silver streaks as she danced through the mannequins, her eyes glowing continuously gold as she danced amongst the carnage. And at the end, when she faced Lucius Malfoy with her chest heaving, her swords crossed around his neck, and the bodies of mutilated dummies strewed about on the floor, she threw back her head in ecstasy as she revelled in the fact that –_

She felt alive!

_She let her arms fall back to her side and let go of her swords, except that they didn’t fall to the floor, instead leaving them floating in the air as she stepped forward away from them. Her worthy opponent mimicked her actions. He flicked his wand and at once the rapier was gleaming, perfectly clean once more. He examined the work with no more than a cursory glance before stowing it back into the cane which was ever present._

_“You were an admirable opponent, Lucius. I thank thee for thy partaking in my invitation.”_

_Rolling her eyes when she beheld his raised eyebrow at the carnage around them, she waved her hand, and the mannequins immediately began to reassemble, the wood chipping flying back together and melding once more. Within seconds, the place was spotless._

_“I thank you for your challenge of a spar. It was a... unique experience. You have an interesting style”_

_“I assume you refer to the coexistence of magic and weaponry. It was imperative during Camelot, as it is imperative now.”_

_“You imply that the challenges we face will be the same.”_

_She laughed. “Of course they are the same. Merlin was always one to meddle and the millennia we have spent apart would not have cured him of that disposition. It likely would have increased it.”_

_“Ah.” The word was drawn out. “And now we finally arrive at the heart of this invitation.”_

_“So sceptical Lucius and yet so astute.”_

_“I assume you want me to find him.”_

_The implicature that only Morgana believed that he was still alive was left unsaid. Yet as it lay between them it was so loud one was almost deafened by it._

_“No.”_

_“No?”_

_“I want Delores Umbridge to find her.”_

_Lucius stilled._

_“If he is at Hogwarts, my son Draco has made no mention of him, nor of incredible power and skill that anyone person wields.” The man seemed to swell slightly with pride as he mentioned his Scion._

_“Do not punish your Heir; he is not the first to be fooled by Merlin’s wicked ways, nor is he the last.”_

_Lucius stiffened at the apparent perceived slight to his family. Morgana waved it off._

_“Let me finish before you gallantly defend your family’s honour. Do you honestly think that a man who is Immortal would not live thus? This is the man who lived like a servant, who kept to the shadows, who moved so stealthy that it seemed as if no one was there.”_

_Lucius blinked at the revelation that her nemesis had been a servant in her previous life, but did not pursue it, instead focusing on the matter of Hogwarts._

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Disregarding the fact that I have been watching him in the Afterlife, I_ know _Merlin in ways you cannot possibly understand. He has fingers in many, many pies. He will know of the Prophecy that binds your Dark Lord to the boy, and thus he will have reacted predictably. He will know of my presence once more on the Earth, and he will have reacted acted accordingly. He is at Hogwarts, most likely disguised as a student, where he is in the perfect place to protect the boy, but more importantly, the children.”_

_Understanding dawned in the Patriarch of the Malfoy Family’s eyes. “Draco’s view is only of his year and more limiting, to Slytherin. Whereas Umbridge has access to all of the children, through her position as a teacher of a subject which is compulsory up to OWL level and is popular in itself.”_

_“Precisely. But not popular enough, I feel.”_

_Lucius watched her with cold grey eyes._

_“I see.”_

_Silence._

_“I permit your leave of me.” Morgana dismissed him, waving her hand. She watched with detached amusement as his back stiffened slightly before he caught her hand and kissed it, his Pureblood manners kicking in._

_“Milady.”_

_“Until next time, Lucius darling.”_

_His footsteps echoed in the stone chamber, but even as they became fainter Morgana did not let herself relax. Instead, she moved to sit on one of the high backed wooden chairs dotted around the edge of the room and sank gratefully into the silk cushion provided. A flash of gold and a cloth appeared in her hand. Reaching out to grasp one of the swords by the handle, she let the enchantment on it drop, causing her arm to sink when she bore the full weight of the weapon._

_Although it was made of high quality metal and she had been informed that it had been forged by Goblins, it was by no means an exquisite weapon. Indeed, even the lower quality swords present in her days at Camelot had been forged better. Peasants these days had no concept of weaponry, she had discovered; take Lucius for example, trusting that magic would clean his rapier adequately enough. She inwardly scoffed; you could have all the magic in the world and still have a sword that would be susceptible to rust by the end of the cleansing. All sword masters knew that if you wanted to keep and work well with your weapon then it would need to be tended to by hand. Why, even the great_ Merlin _knew, and didn’t that say enough?_

_Slowly, almost tenderly, she ran the rag up and down the sword, carefully removing the blood and the grease it had picked up from her spar and the exercises she had performed before that. Still, although she was engrossed in the activity, she was still aware of her surroundings, and thus did not react when Voldemort finally deigned to reveal himself from one of the many shadowy corners, much to his disappointment._

_“You did not ward the swords.”_

_Morgana raised one eyebrow in surprise at the chosen topic of conversation but did not stop cleaning her weapons lovingly._

_“There was no need. Or are you all so reliant on magic that physical injury impairs you so easily?”_

_“If one is as good a dueller as they claim, then no injuries should occur.”_

_“Then,” Morgana countered smoothly, “It is not a problem then, is it?”_

_She rose from her seat, and stalked towards the weapons rack, where she delicately placed the swords back in their appropriate place, instantly missing their comforting presence once they settled into place. When she turned, he was standing in the middle of the duelling arena, regarding her with crimson eyes, so unlike the gaze Lucius had fixed her with just a short while ago._

_“You still stand by your belief that Merlin is alive.” He observed._

_She stared directly into his eyes. “It is not a belief, but a truth. I saw him, I_ watched _him. After thirteen hundred years, one does get bored of the Afterlife. We looked on as equals upon civilisations which were born, thrived, and died. I saw him walk among the mortals, anger burning in his eyes as he beheld destruction and war. We watched on as he saw the birth of great people, watched them live their lives until they died like the ants that they are. I saw him try to save lives and I saw him destroying others. He is still alive today, let me assure you.”_

_“You mention the Afterlife several times.”_

_Despite himself, Morgana knew that he was curious; like all men were. For wasn’t the greatest question of life the end of it? Death?_

_“It does not become you to tread cautiously. Speak what you will.”_

_“How could you regard this world when you were in another?”_

_A sardonic smirk touched upon her blood painted lips._

_“There is no record of Merlin after I left this world because he was standing in shadows all this time as the world continued. He stays in the shadows because he can’t stand the light, even though he is a part of it like you are a part of the dark. He is the Master of Disguises, the Keeper of Secrets, one who is named Immortal in our language of old. And when you are Immortal, you can become terribly, terribly cruel.”_

_A pause._

_“That was my punishment, you see. To watch him. Oh, I was not in Avalon – I did not deserve that reward or recognition – but I was given their gift to taunt me, to parade what it was I had lost, in the place where I was. A place where believe me, any distraction is a gift gratefully received, even if it is of and from one you hated.”_

* * *

Merlin bolted up in his bed, chest heaving as he struggled to control his breathing. Even subconsciously, his habits about being unnoticeable were in full force, and subsequently his mouth was filled with blood from biting down on his lip to prevent him from screaming. Dreaming about everything from Morgana’s perspective was uncomfortable to say the least; but even more so when it concerned _him._

For she had been watching him. He had almost forgotten the passing gift he had bequeathed unto her upon her death, an act of such savage passion that a bolt of shame passed through him upon the cruelness of the blessing. Immediately he pushed it aside: she _deserved_ it for all that she had done, both to himself and his own.

 _Especially_ his own.

Still, the feeling of illness would not desist.

Trying to achieve the trance in order to view his Waking Dreams was impossible for Merlin. Every time his eyes closed the images came, making him feel sick as he remembered the atrocities he had committed for his side, even if it was for the ‘good’ of the nation, the _world_.

It still made him feel like a monster.

He suspected that the feeling would never really go away.

Merlin tried to relax for a further two minutes before realising it was futile. It had gotten so bad that the memories were burnt onto his irises, obstructing his view of the natural world, the wooden posts replaced by charred stick, the crimson canopy morphing into a blazing inferno, the snores of his dorm mates becoming the grunts of the dying -

He couldn’t stay here. He needed to get _out._

**Author's Note:**

> Lughnasadh is the pagan festival held at the beginning of August, where harvest would officially begin.
> 
> “Geopenian Avalon, ac un lætan. Geopenian Avalon, ac un þeostru priestess. Freo Morgana Pendragon!” 
> 
> This translates as “Open, Avalon, and let one exit your gates. Open, Avalon, and let the Dark Priestess through. Open, Avalon, and release Morgana Pendragon!”


End file.
